• 

I 

; 


•• 


.  m  H 


CORRECTIONS. 

p.    38.    STROKE  A  NETTLE.     For  Anonymous  read  Aaron  Hill. 

p.    44.    ON   A   STONE  THROWN,    &c.      For  Anonymous   read  Peter 

Pindar. 

p.     57.    HOPE.     For  Anonymous   read  Campbell,  Pleasures  of  Hope. 
p.    63.    GONDOLA.     For  Anonymous  read  Mrs.  C.  B.  Wilson, 
p.    82.    SOUND  THE  CLARION.     For  Anonymous  read  Walter  Scott, 
p.  238.    ANNIE  LAURIE.     For  Anonymous  read  Douglas  of  Fingland. 
p.  245.    THE  BLUE   JUNIATA.      For   Anonymous   read   Mrs.  M.    D. 

Sullivan. 

p.  259.    LOVE'S  RITOKNELLA.     For  Anonymous  read  J.  R.  Planche. 
Fifth  line  from  bottom,  for  the  captive  he  rt><td  the  captive 

is  he. 


PREFACE. 


THIS  volume  is  built  up  from  the  nucleus  of  an  old  scrap-book 
begun  about  1830,  and  from  a  few  old  verses  which  had  been 
either  copied  or  impressed  upon  the  memory  much  earlier. 
The  original  leaves  still  hold  a  few  flowers,  pressed  fifty  years 
ago,  and  a  good  many  newspaper  cuttings  of  various  periods. 
To  these  last  have  been  added  contributions  from  friends,  both 
in  print  and  manuscript,  many  songs  and  gleanings  from  the 
then  current  literature  of  England  and  America,  while  some 
living  authors,  and  the  representatives  of  others,  have  gener- 
ously permitted  the  free  use  of  their  treasures.* 

If  I  were  to  catalogue  in  a  rough  way  the  patchwork  now 
printed,  it  would  read  something  thus :  — 

Nursery  hymns,  having  the  tones  of  voices  long  silent,  still 
ringing  in  one's  ears  with  the  distinctness  of  yesterday. 

Stealings,  from  school  and  other  books,  accumulated  in  the 
desultory  reading  of  a  lifetime ;  and,  especially,  large  extracts 
from  those  poets  who  were  universally  recognized  fifty  years 
ago,  and  whom  it  seems  to  be  the  fashion  of  young  America 
to  forget  or  ignore. 

Songs  of  the  hunt,  the  yacht,  the  Indiaman's  cabin  or  deck 
through  trade-winds  and  Cape  of  Good  Hope  storms,  or  the 

*  Messrs.  Houghton,  Mifflin,  &  Co.  have  been  particularly  ^liging. 


iv  '  PREFACE. 

coming  typhoon,  —  some  having  for  an  accompaniment  the  rus'h- 
ing  tide  of  Wood's  Holl,  or  the  squall  hurrying  down  the  sides 
of  St.  Michael's,  or  Teneriffe's  mountains  ;  the  ripple  of  the 
Miami  River  pushing  out  of  the  Everglades,  the  foam  along  the 
Florida  reefs,  or  the  "  burr "  of  the  hurricane  among  the  pines 
of  the  St.  John's  Eiver. 

Songs  of  the  concert  room,  theatre,  and  opera,  —  from  the  days 
of  Mario  and  Grisi,  Jenny  Lind  and  Rachel  (if  the  snake-like 
hissing  of  Rachel's  "  Marseillaise  "  can  be  called  singing),  down 
to  the  sturdy  Badialli  with  his  three  encores  of  "  Suoni  la 
Tromba." 

National,  political,  and  war  songs,  —  from  the  days  of  the 
Free  Soil  Campaign  of  1856,  up  to  those  which  rang  through 
the  camps  of  Grant,  Sherman,  and  Sheridan,  carrying  the 
undertone  which  so  many  of  the  verses  got  from  the  outgoing 
regiments  under  Gordon,  Lee,  Williams,  Shaw,  Lowell,  and 
Hallowell,  and  from  the  sadder  march  when  they  returned 
with  thinned  ranks  and  tattered  flags. 

In  short,  to  paraphrase  Halleck,  — 

"  Sougs  of  the  peasant  and  the  peer, 
Songs  of  the  bridal  and  the  bier, 
The  welcome  and  farewell." 

Poems  of  the  parlor,  beginning  under  the  low  ceiling  of  the 
old  Milton  House,  then  through  Pearl  Street  and  Pine  Bank,, 
reaching  over  to  Russell  Sturgis's  pleasant  quarters  on  the  Praya 
Grande  of  Macao,  and  onward  still  to  my  little  ranche  of  Mt. 
Saint  George  in  California,  —  by  no  means  forgetting  Naushon . 
and  Swan  Island. 

Poems  heard  from  the  lips  of  Emerson,  Lowell,  Poe,  Holmes, 
Fanny  Kemble,  and  the  beautiful  Catherine  Sedgwick,  after- 
wards Mrs.  Heine. 


PREFACE.  V 

All  these  and  a  thousand  more  such  threads  run  through 
the  memory  like  echoes  from  the  past,  when  one  tries  to  string 
together  the  rhymes  which  have  been  floating  in  the  mind 
through  over  half  a  century. 

This  crude  medley  of  Poem  and  Song,  Epigram  and  Charade, 
is  offered  with  some  hesitation  as  a  token  of  remembrance  to 
the  few  old  friends  who  still  surround  me,  and  to  the  many 
younger  ones  who  are  so  rapidly  taking  our  places. 

If  it  saves  some  eyes  from  straining  over  faded  manuscript 
and  fine  print,  or  recalls  scenes  and  tones  of  voice  or  of  music 
connected  with  its  verses,  it  will  have  answered  the  rather 
vague  purpose  with  which  it  has  been  so  loosely  thrown 


together. 


J.  M.  F. 


INDEX    OF   AUTHORS. 


ADAMS,  SARAH  FLOWER. 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee,  124. 

ADDISON,  JOSEPH. 
An  Ode :  The  spacious  firmament,  499. 

ANONYMOUS. 

About  that  brow,  6.  % 

A  Charade :  Sir  Hilary  charged,  223. 
Address  to  my  Washerwoman,  78. 
A  Fragment :  Come  take  the  harp,  650. 
Ah,  Mr.  B.,  76. 
A  tetter  of  Advice  from  Miss  M.  T. 

to  Araminta,  7. 
Annie  Laurie,  238. 
Away,  away  we  bound  o'er  the  deep, 

26. 

A  Woman's  Ideal,  622. 
Begone!  dull  care,  253. 
Bridal  Serenade,  65. 
Clear-sighted,  yet  blind,  53. 
Come,  brave  with  me  the  sea,  239. 
Day  breaks  on  the  mountain,  49. 
Drinking-Song :  Banish  sorrow,  34. 
Epitaph  on  Napoleon's  Tomb  at  St. 

Helena,  86. 

Epitaph  on  Timothy  John,  188. 
For  thee,  Love,  —  for  thee,  Love,  9. 
Gathering  of  Atliol,  232. 
Glory,  glory,  hallelujah,  299. 
Gondola,  63. 

Hail,  charming  power,  38. 
Home  by  the  Sea,  241. 


Hope,  57. 

How  gayly  rows  the  gondolier,  61. 

How  stands  the  glass  around  ?  71. 

I  '11  haste  to  quaff  my  wine,  104. 

"  I  number  none  but  the  cloudless 
hours,"  210. 

Know  ye  the  land  ?  25. 

Leezie  Lindsay,  261. 

Life,  3. 

Love's  Kitornella,  259. 

Mahabharata,  366. 

Maternal  Affection,  86. 

"Merry  England,"  84. 

Nursery  Rhyme :  Hark !  the  little 
drummer,  183. 

O'er  the  water  to  Charlie,  233. 

Oh,  bid  your  faithful  Ariel  fly,  255. 

On  a  Miser,  33. 

On  a  Stone  thrown  that  missed  a  thick 
Head,  44. 

One  still  lingered,  56. 

On  the  Death  of  a  beautiful  Young 
Girl,  54. 

0  pescator  dell'  onde,  240. 

Receipt  to  make  a  Man  of  Conse- 
quence, 40. 

Red,  White,  and  Blue,  312. 

Reproach,  638. 

Shan  Van  Vocht,  149. 

Should  he  upbraid,  253. 

Sound,  sound  the  clarion,  82. 

Spirits  which  hover  round,  250. 

Stroke  a  nettle,  38. 


V1U 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


Tell  her  I  '11  love  her,  247. 

The  Banks  of  the  blue  Moselle,  255. 

The  Barring  o'  the  Door,  614. 

The  blue  Juniata,  245. 

The  Braggart,  58. 

The  Campbells  are  comiu',  270. 

The  Cathedral,  73. 

The  Change,  231. 

The  Despairing  Lover,  613. 

The  Disaster,  240.  % 

The  five  Dreams,  36. 

The  Gathering  of  the  Hays,  228. 

The  Gipsy  Laddie,  142. 

The  Grave,  56. 

The  Jacobite's  Pledge,  230. 

The  late  Deputation  to  Paris,  101. 

The  light  Bark,  62. 

The  little  Pet  Plant,  653. 

The  moon  is  up,  the  evening  star,  14. 

The  Nation's  Dead,  310. 

The  Quaker  Meeting-House,  13. 

The  soldier,  tired  of  war's  alarms,  270. 

The  Song  of  the  Forge,  87. 

Titania's  Song,  256. 

To-  -  ,  41. 

To  a  newly  opened  Oyster,  15. 

Together,  293. 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abra'am,  302. 

What  strange,  deep  secret,  96. 

When  shall  we  all  meet  again  ?  617. 

Wilt  thou  tempt  the  waves  with  me  ? 

650. 

W.  M.  Hunt's  French  Song,  105. 
Wonders  cease,  48. 

AYTOTJN,  WILLIAM  EDMONDSTOTJNE. 
Courtship  of  our  Cid,  396. 

BAILLIE,  JOANNA. 
The  Bonny  Boat,  131. 


BARBATJLD,  ANNA 
Life  and  Death,  575. 
The  Sabbath  of  the  Soul,  457 


BARKER,  DAVID. 
Two  Kinds  of  Piety,  146. 

BAYLY,  THOMAS  HAYXES. 
Gayly  the  Troubadour,  251. 
Isle  of  Beauty,  61. 

BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 
Take,  oh,  take  those  lips  away,  543. 

BEERS,  ETHEL  LYNN. 

On  the  Shores  of  Tennessee,  292. 
The  Picket-Guard,  294. 

BLISS, . 

Epitaph  on  a  Slave  in  "  Old  Burial 
Hill,"  Concord,  Mass.,  99. 

BRADFORD,  JOSEPH. 
Dolce  far  Niente,  147. 

BROWNE,  WILLIAM. 

The  Sirens'  Song,  628. 
Whom  I  love,  621. 

BROWNING,  ELIZABETH  BARRETT. 
My  Kate,  397. 

BROWNING,  ROBERT. 

Cavalier's  Song,  589. 

How  they  brought  the   good  News 

from  Ghent  to  Aix,  603. 
Incident  of  the  French  Camp,  273. 
The  Lost  Leader,  515. 

BRYANT,  WILLIAM  CCLLEN. 

A  Forest  Hymn,  637. 
Green  River,  361. 
Thauatopsis,  494. 
The  Damsel  of  Peru,  357. 
The  Death  of  the  Flowers,  469. 
Wooing-Time,  60. 


IXDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


IX 


BULWER  (SiR  EDWARD  BTTLWER 
LYTTON). 

Extract :  We  believe  that  fate,  78. 

On  English  Travellers,  55. 

To  the  dim  and  gloomy  shore,  72. 

BURGOYNE,  GENERAL. 
The  dashing  white  Sergeant,  266. 

BURNS,  ROBERT. 

Address  to  the  unco  Guid,  or  the  rig- 
idly Righteous,  428. 

A  Highland  lad  my  love  was  born,  402. 

A  red,  red  Rose,  542. 

Bannockburn,  504. 

Bonnie  Lesley,  401. 

For  a'  that  and  a'  that,  484. 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  23. 

I  am  a  son  of  Mars,  425. 

Jean,  541. 

John  Anderson,  539. 

Lament  for  James,  Earl  of  Glencairn, 
455. 

MY  heart 's  in  the  Highlands,  566. 

The  Deil's  a\va'  wi'  the   Exciseman, 
429. 

The  first  Kiss  of  Affection,  393. 

The  winsome  Wee  Thing,  75. 

To  the  Devil,  602. 

Wandering  Willie,  404. 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doou, 
242. 

BUTLER,  SAMUEL. 

The  Stratagem,  616. 

BYRD,  WILLIAM. 
My  miude  to  me  a  kingdom  is,  491. 

BYRON,  GEORGE  GORDON  (Lord). 

An  Ode  :  From  the  French,  444. 
Apostrophe  to  the  Ocean,  420. 
A  sail !  a  sail !  467. 
A  Sketch,  426. 


Bring  forth  the  horse,  468. 

Death  of  Major  Howard,  54. 

Elegiac  Stanzas  on  the  Death  of  Sir 

Peter  Parker,  Bart.,  458. 
Fare  thee  well,  403. 
Farewell !  if  ever  fondest  prayer,  455. 
Fill  the  goblet  again,  52. 
He  that  hath  sailed,  77. 
Jephtha's  Daughter,  500. 
Maid  of  Athens,  410. 
My  boat  is  on  the  shore,  27. 
My  tent  on  shore,  my  galley  on  the 

sea,  77. 

Ode  to  Napoleon  Bonaparte,  39. 
O'er  the  glad  waters,  472. 
Ou  Jordan's  banks,  421. 
On  the  Star  of  the  "  Legion  of  Honor," 

415. 

She  walks  in  beauty,  477. 
Song  of  the  Greek  Poet,  582. 
The  Banks  of  Rhine,  399. 
The  Destruction  of  Sennacherib,  522. 
The  Helen  of  Canova,  28 
The  Immortal  Mind,  498. 
The  Laud  of  the  Sun,  414. 
There  is  a  light  cloud  by  the  moon, 

521. 

The  Wild  Gazelle,  419. 
To  Thomas  Moore,  28. 
Vision  of  Belshazzar,  601. 
Waterloo,  510. 
What  ails  thee,  Dervise  ?  450. 

CALVERT,  GEORGE  H. 
Woman's  Love,  149. 

CAMPBELL,  THOMAS. 

Battle  of  the  Baltic,  505. 

Exile  of  Erin,  2. 

"  Gertrude    of   Wyoming,"    Extract 

from,  435. 
Glenara,  528. 
Hohenliuden,  509. 
In  vain,  alas  !  in  vain,  26. 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


Lochiel's  "Warning,  605. 
Lord  Ulliu's  Daughter,  570. 
Men  of  England,  416. 
O'Connor's  Child,  437- 
Song  :  Drink  ye  to  her,  465. 
Song  :  Withdraw  not  yet,  456. 
The  Beech-Tree's  Petition,  418. 
The  Soldier's  Dream,  272. 
The  Turkish  Lady,  411. 
What 's  hallowed  ground  ?  459. 
Ye  mariners  of  England  !  507- 

CAPEN,  EDWARD. 
Shall  we  ever  meet  again  ?  107. 

CAREW,  THOMAS. 
He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek,  625. 

CLARKE,  CAPTAIN. 
Our  Island  Christmas  Eve,  227. 

C.,  M.  A. 

Time,  12. 

COLERIDGE,  SAMUEL  TAYLOR. 

Genevieve,  31 

Let  us  love,  453. 

The  Devil's  Thoughts,  430. 

COLLINS,  WILLIAM. 
How  sleep  the  brave,  551. 

CONYGHAM,   MRS. 

From  "The  Dream,"  658. 

COWPER,  WILLIAM. 
Boadicea,  502. 

On  the  Loss  of  the  "  Royal  George," 
552. 

CRAIG,  ISA. 

The  Ballad  of  the  Brides  of  Quair,  599. 

CUNNINGHAM,  ALLAN. 
Sea  Song :  A  wet  sheet,  470. 


DE  LISLE,  ROUGET. 
Hymne  des  Marseillais,  274. 

DIBDIN,  CHARLES. 
Tom  Bowling,  267. 

DICKENS,  CHARLES. 
The  Ivy  Green,  636. 

DIMOND,  WILLIAM. 
The  Mariner's  Dream,  16. 

DODDRIDGE,  PHILIP. 

Awake,  my  soul,  stretch  every  nerve, 
123. 

DRAKE,  JOSEPH  RODMAN. 
The  American  Flag,  300. 

DUMAS,  ALEXANDRE. 
Mourir  pour  la  patrie,  276. 

DURIVAGE,  A.  E. 
Address  to  the  Birch,  38. 

ELIOT,  GEORGE. 
Boat  Song,  448. 

EMERSON,  RALPH  WALDO. 

Boston,  319. 

Brahma,  366. 

Each  and  All,  368. 

Fable,  377. 

Forbearance,  378. 

Give  all  to  love,  628. 

Hymn  sung  at  the  Completion  of  the 

Concord  Monument,  594. 
Maiden  Speech  of  the  JSolian  Harp, 

643. 

Saadi  and  the  Dervish,  339. 
Terminus,  380. 
The  Apology,  626. 
The  Rhodora,  385. 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


XI 


The  Snow-Storm,  358. 

The  Visit,  618. 

Thine  eyes  still  shone,  627. 

"  Threnody,"  Extract  from,  387. 

To  the  Humble-Bee,  324. 

Voluntaries,  346. 

Waldeinsamkeit,  640. 

EVERETT,  EDWARD. 
Dirge  of  Alaric,  the  Visigoth,  110. 

FANSHAWE,  CATHERINE. 
A  Riddle  :  'T  was  whispered  in  heaven, 
395. 

F.,  C.  F. 
There  was  a  listening  fear,  104. 

FOSTER,  MRS. 

To   the    First  of    the     Seraphim,  — 
Death,  94. 

FOSTER,  STEPHEN  COLLINS. 
Old  Folks  at  Home,  235. 

FRANKLIN,  BENJAMIN. 

A  Letter  of  Benjamin  Franklin  to  Mr. 
Strahan,  249. 

GARRICK,  DAVID. 
Thou  soft-flowing  Avon,  258. 

GARRISON,  WILLIAM  LLOYD. 
Freedom  of  the  Mind,  246. 

GARRISON,  WILLIAM  LLOYD,  JR. 
To ,  658. 

GOETHE,  JOHANN  WOLFGANG  VON. 
The  Erl  King,  196. 
The  Fortunate  Land,  164. 

GILLESPIE,  WILLIAM. 
The  Highlander,  133. 


GOLDSMITH,  OLIVER. 
An  Elegy  on  the  Death  of  a  Mad  Dog, 

565. 
The  Deserted  Village,  633. 

GORDON,  MARIA  W. 
On  the  Death  of  E.  P.,  646. 

GOULD,  Miss  H.  F. 
The  ship  is  ready,  29. 

GRAY,  THOMAS. 

Elegy  written  in  a  Country  Church- 
yard, 496. 
The  Bard,  561. 

HALLECK,  FITZ-GREENE. 

Alnwick  Castle,  69. 

Burns,  331. 

Connecticut,  363. 

Magdalen,  359. 

Marco  Bozzaris,  355. 

On  the  Death  of  Joseph  Rodman 
Drake,  129. 

On  the  Death  of  William  Howard  Al- 
len, 351. 

Red  Jacket,  338. 

Song :  The  winds  of  March,  10. 

The  Field  of  the  Grounded  Arms,  350. 

The  Rhyme  of  the  Ancient  Coaster, 
391. 

To  Eliza,  387. 

To  my  Yacht,  74. 

Woman,  388. 

HARTE,  BRET. 
Chiquita,  555. 
Plain  Language  from  Truthful  James, 

557. 
The  Society  upon  the  Stanislaus,  390. 

H.,  A.  S. 
An  Opal  Gem,  213. 
Soft  gleams  the  October  sun,  217. 


Xll 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


HAY,  COLONEL  JOHN. 
On  A.  B.,  218. 

HEBER,  REGINALD. 
Missionary  Hymn,  19. 
The  Moonlight  March,  20. 

HEMANS,  FELICIA  DOROTHEA. 
Casabiauca,  134. 
Hy inn  to  the  Virgin,  1,88. 
The  Bell  at  Sea,  59. 
The  Hour  of  Death,  67. 
The  Landing  of  the  Pilgrim  Fathers 

in  New  England,  3. 
The  Recall,  25. 

HERBERT,  GEORGE. 
The  Parish  Priest  to  Ms   Successor, 
271. 

HERRICK,  ROBERT. 

The  Night-Piece  :  To  Julia,  545. 

H.,  E.  S. 

Answer  to  "  Love  not,"  379. 

Better  a   sin  -which   purposed  wrong 

to  none,  378. 

Cry  of  each  Planet's  Night,  364. 
Epitaph  :  Stranger,  thou  readest,  386. 
1  slept  and  dreamed,  385. 
My  Thoughts,  367. 
On  a  Child  Drowned,  386. 
Sleep,  370. 

The  Nobly  Born,  559. 
The  Wood  Fire,  199. 
To  R.  W.  E,  323. 

HILLHOUSE,  JAMES  A. 
Percy  claiming  his  own,  607. 

HOAR,  ELIZABETH. 
Story  of  a  Bridge,  340. 

HOFFMAN,  CHARLES  FENNO. 
Sparkling  and  bright,  237. 


HOGG,  JAMES. 

A  National  Song  of  Triumph,  226. 
Kilmeny,  485. 
The  Lark,  263. 

HOLMES,  OLIVER  WENDELL. 

A  Farewell  to  Agassiz,  335. 

A  Song  of  other  Days,  654. 

Hunting-song,  1857,  212. 

Hunting-Song  for  1839,  206. 

Lexington,  286. 

Never  or  Now,  517. 

No  more  the  summer  floweret  charms, 

215. 

Old  Ironsides,  516. 
Questions  and  Answers,  375. 
Song  :  The  stars  their  early  vigils,  330. 
Sun  and  Shadow,  225. 
The  Last  Look :  W.  W.  Swain,  644. 
The  Pilgrim's  Vision,  589. 
To  Governor  Swain,  648. 

HOOD,  THOMAS. 

I  remember,  I  remember,  the  house, 
584. 

HOPKINSON,  JUDGE  JOSEPH. 
Hail,  Columbia !  283. 

HOUGUTON  (RICHARD  MONCKTON 
MILNES),  LORD. 

The  Brookside,  417- 

HOWE,  JULIA  WARD. 

Balaklava,  278. 

Battle  Hymn  of  the  Republic,  298. 
Seasons  have  passed  away,  224. 
The  Flag,  296. 

HUNT,  LEIGH. 

Abou  Ben  Adhem,  493. 
Jenny  kissed  me,  182. 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


H.,  W.  H. 

The  Bugle-Horn,  207- 

JAMES,  PAUL  MOON. 
The  Lighthouse,  184. 

JONSON,  BEN. 

Epitaph :  Underneath  this  stone,  426. 
Freedom  in  Dress,  482. 
To  Celia,  544. 

KEMBLE,  FRANCES  ANNE. 
Absence,  205. 
Faith,  187. 
Impromptu,  195. 
Lines  addressed  to  the   Young   Men 

leaving    the    Academy    at    Lenox, 

Mass.,  135. 

Lines  for  Music  :  O  sunny  love,  189. 
Lines  in  Answer  to  a  Question,  90. 
Song :  When  you  mournfully  rivet,  186. 
Song  of  the  Spirit  of  Dawn,  168. 
Sonnets  on  the  American  War,  308. 
The  Fall  of  Richmond,  306. 

KEY,  FRANCIS  SCOTT. 
The  Star-spangled  Banner,  287. 

LANDON,  Miss  L.  E. 
The  Lake  of  Wiudermere,  30. 

LARCOM,  LUCY. 
A  Loyal  Woman's  No,  518. 

LATHROP,  G.  P. 
Keeuan's  Charge,  651. 

LEIGH,  HENRY  S. 
The  Twins,  268. 

LOCKHART,  JOHN  GIBSON. 
Song  of  the  Galley,  152. 
The  Bridal  of  Andalla,  548. 


LONGFELLOW,  HENRY  WADSWORTH. 

A  Psalm  of  Life,  373. 
Footsteps  of  Angels,  376. 
Hymn  of  the  Moravian  Nuns  of  Beth- 
lehem, 592. 

Hymn  to  the  Night,  365. 
The  Arrow  and  the  Song,  379. 
The  Children's  Hour,  475. 
The  Cumberland,  608. 
The  Happiest  Laud,  597. 
The  Light  of  Stars,  372. 
The  Skeleton  in  Armor,  585. 
The  Warden  pf  the  Cinque  Ports,  512. 

LOVELACE,  SIR  RICHARD. 
To  Althea,  619. 
To  Lucasta,  478. 

LOWELL,  JAMES  RUSSELL. 

Auf  Wiedersehen,  593. 
Commemoration  Ode,  328. 
Jonathan  to  John,  595. 
June,  381. 

Mason  and  Slidell,  612. 
The  Beggar,  367. 

The  wisest  man  could  ask  no   more, 
382. 

LUNT,  GEORGE. 
Requiem  for  a  young  Soldier,  27L 

LYTLE,  WILLIAM  HAINES. 
Antony  and  Cleopatra,  284. 

MACATJLAY,  THOMAS  BABINGTON. 
Horatius  Cocles,  179. 
Ivry,  155- 

MAC  KAY,  CHARLES. 
Some  love  to  roam,  178. 

MARLOWE,  CHRISTOPHER. 
Live  with  me  and  be  my  love,  262. 


XIV 


INDEX  OF  AUTHORS. 


MASON,  WILLIAM. 

Epitaph  on  Mrs.  Mason  in  the  Cathe- 
dral at  Bristol,  632. 

MICKLE,  WILLIAM  JULIUS. 
Cumnor  Hall,  42. 

MILTON,  JOHN. 
Mortal,  63. 

MITCHELL,  S.  WEIR,,M.D. 
Kearsarge,  630. 
The  Quaker  Graveyard,  631. 

MITCHELL,  WALTER. 
Tacking  Ship  off  Shore,  473. 

MONTGOMERY,  JAMES. 
What  is  Prayer?  120. 

MONTROSE,  JAMES   GRAHAME,  MAR- 
QUIS OF. 

I  '11  never  love  thee  more,  478. 

MOORE,  THOMAS. 

A  Canadian  Boat-Song,  537. 

Araby's  Daughter,  535. 

A  Spirit  there  is,  173. 

Ballad  Stanzas,  195. 

Before  the  Battle,  162. 

Believe    me,   if  all    those    endearing 

young  charms,  180. 
Come,  ye  disconsolate,  636. 
Drink  to  her,  140. 
Fill  the  bumper  fair  !  138. 
Fly  to  the  desert,  163. 
How  shall  I  woo  ?  624. 
I  saw  from  the  beach,  176. 
Is  there  a  heart  that  never  loved  ?  257- 
It  is  this,  it  is  this,  163. 
Love's  young  Dream,  546. 
Oft  in  the  stilly  night,  536. 
Oh,  ever  thus,' 187- 


Oh,  had  we  some  bright  little  isle  of 

our  own,  141. 
Rich    and  rare  were  the  gems  she 

wore,  182. 

She  is  far  from  the  land,  407. 
Song:  Row  gently  here,  132. 
Song  :  When  Time,  who  steals,  24. 
Sound  the  loud  timbrel,  202. 
St.  Seuanus  and  the  Lady,  1 48. 
Tell  me  not  of  joys  above,  183. 
The  Appeal  to  Hafed,  189. 
The  Conflict,  175. 
The  Ghebers'  Fight,  611. 
The  harp  that  once   through    Tara's 

halls,  539. 

The  Lake  of  the  Dismal  Swamp,  525. 
The  Leaf  and  Fountain,  408. 
The  Legacy,  154. 
The  Meeting  of  the  Ships,  130. 
The  Meeting  of  the  Waters,  153. 
The  Minstrel  Boy,  156. 
The  Peri  at  the  Gate,  181. 
There  's  a  bower  of  roses,  173. 
The  Steersman's  Song,  198. 
The  time  I've  lost  in  wooing,  177. 
The  turf  shall  be  my  fragrant  shrine, 

203. 

The  Vale  of  Cashmere,  160. 
The  young  May  Moon,  198. 
This  world  is  all  a  fleeting  show, 

204. 

Those  Evening  Bells,  18. 
To  sigh,  yet  feel  no  pain,  194. 
When  twilight  dews,  193. 
You  remember  Ellen,  197. 

MoTHERWELL,  WlLLIAM. 

Jeanie  Morrison,  46. 
The  Cavalier's  Song,  151. 
The  Sword-Chant  of  Thorstein  Raudi, 
169. 

MOULTON,  LOUISE  CHANDLER. 
John  A.  Andrew,  309. 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


XV 


MUIILENBERG,  "WlLLIAM    AUGUSTUS. 

I  would  not  live  alway,  326. 

NAIRN,  LADY  CAROLINE. 
The  Land  o'  the  Leal,  620. 

NKAL,  JOHN. 
The  American  Eagle,  113. 

NORTON,  CAROLINE. 
A  Health  to  the  Outward  Bound,  642. 
Love  not !  58. 

NORTON,  CHARLES  E. 

To  R.  "W.  Emerson,  on  his  Seventieth 
Birthday,  646. 

Q'KEEFE,  JOHN. 
I  am  a  friar  of  orders  gray,  524.    • 

P.,  A   A. 

Sent  to  Heaven,  105. 

PARKER,  MARTYN. 
Ye  gentlemen  of  England,  264. 

PAYNE,  JOHN  HOWARD. 
Home,  sweet  Home,  234. 

PERCIVAL,  JAMES  GATES. 
New  England,  115. 
The  Coral  Grove,  471. 
The  Greek  Emigrant's  Song,  118. 
The  Language  of  Flowers,  641. 

• 

PERKINS,  JAMES  HANDASYD. 
Home,  248. 

It  is  a  beautiful  belief,  219. 
To  S.  S.  P.,  647. 
Why?  100. 

PICKERING,  A.  L. 
The  Dead  Dog,  97. 


PIERPONT,  JOHN. 

Hymn  for  the  two  hundredth  Anniver- 
sary of  the  Settlement  of  Charles- 
town,  5. 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers,  128. 

PINKNEY,  EDWARD  COATE. 
A  Health,  167. 

PITT,  WILLIAM. 
The  Sailor's  Consolation,  35. 

POE,  EDGAR  ALLAN. 
The  Fire-Fiend,  103. 

POPE,  ALEXANDER. 

The  Dying  Christian  to  his  Soul,  125. 
The  Universal  Prayer,  462. 

PRAED,  WINTHROP  MACKWORTH. 
I  remember,  I   remember,    how  my 
childhood,  257. 

PROCTER,  ADELAIDE  ANNE. 

Now,  91. 

One  by  One,  92. 

RALEIGH,  SIR  WALTER. 
Lines  written  the  Night  before  his 
Execution,  186. 

ROOT,  GEORGE  F. 
The  Battle-Cry  of  Freedom,  313. 
Tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  318. 

ROSCOE,  Miss. 
The  Mourner,  66. 

SARGENT,  EPES. 
A  life  on  the  ocean  wave,  236. 

SAXE,  JOHN  GODFREY. 
Mourner  k  la  Mode,  609. 


XVI 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


SCHUECKENBURGER,  MAX. 

The  Watch  011  the  Rhine,  282. 

SCOTT,  SIR  WALTER. 
Alice  Brand,  488. 
Alleu-a-Dale,  433. 
Au  hour  with  thee,  400. 
Bonnie  Dundee,  547. 
Border  Ballad,  580. 
Brignall  Banks,  243. 
Cadyow  Castle,  190. 
Cavalier  Song,  573. 
Clan- Alpine  Boat-Song,  578. 
Cleveland's  Song  of  Love,  409. 
Cleveland's  Song  to  Minna,  50. 
Coronach,  550. 
County  Guy,  59. 
Death  of  Oswald  Wycliffe,  449. 
Elspeth's  Ballad,  568. 
Ellen  before  Fitz-James,  412. 
Glee  for  King  Charles,  574. 
Glenfialas,  440. 
Huutiug-Song,  507. 
Inscription  for  a  Lighthouse,  477- 
Jock  of  Hcizeldean,  394. 
Lochinvar,  526. 
Love  of  Country,  575. 
Lucy  Ashton's  Song,  627. 
Lullaby  of  an  Infant  Chief,  254. 
MacGregor's  Gathering,  436. 
Merrily  bounds  the  bark,  432. 
Morton  seeking  the  Blind  Widow,  81. 
Nora's  Vow,  427- 

Norna's  Answer  to  the  Dwarf,  456. 
Norna's  Prophecies,  41. 
Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dim,  21. 
Rebecca's  Hymn,  581. 
Soldier,  rest !  260. 
Song:  A  weary  lot  is  thine,  572. 
The  Bible,  634. 

The  Contest  in  Rokeby  Hall,  445. 
The  Minstrel's  Request,  263. 
The  Rover,  4S7. 


Time,  452. 

Twist  ye,  twine  ye,  459. 

Woman,  396. 

SEARS,  EDMUND  HAMILTON. 

Calm   on  the   listening  ear  of  night, 
635. 

SEWALL,  HARRIET  WINSLOW. 
Why  thus  longing?  327. 

SHAKSPEARE,  WILLIAM. 
Anne  Hathaway,  45. 
Ariel's  Song,  538. 
A  Sea  Dirge,  538. 
Bid  me  discourse,  254. 
Crabbed  Age  and  Youth,  269. 
"Hamlet,"  Extract  from,  454. 
Hotspur,  503. 
Human  Life,  560. 
Lorenzo  and  Jessica,  413. 
Portia's  Charge  to  the  Jew,  617. 
Scene  from  "  King  John,"  466. 
Scene  from  "Macbeth,"  466. 
Shakspeare's  Epitaph,  217. 
Sigh  no  more,  ladies,  269. 
Song  :  Fear  no  more  the  heat,  551. 
Song :  Under  the  greenwood  tree,  5  iO. 
Tell  me,  where  is  fancy  bred,  541. 

SHELLEY,  PERCY  BYSSIIE. 
Arethusa,  422. 
The  Fugitives,  405. 

SHIRLEY,  JAMES.  . 
Death's  Final  Conquest,  497. 

SMITH,  HORACE. 

Address  to  the  Egyptian  Mummy  in 
Belzoni's  Exhibition,  116. 

SOAXE,  GEORGE. 
I've  been  roaming,  252. 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


xvii 


SOUTIIEY,  MRS.  CAROLINE  (BOWLES). 

Mariner's  Hymn,  464. 
On  the  Removal  of  some  Family  Por- 
traits, 142. 

The  Last  Journey,  79. 
The  River,  96. 

SOUTHEY,    ROBEKT. 

Man's  Pilgrimage,  22. 
The  Inchcape  Rock,  576. 

SPRAGUE,  CHARLES. 

The  Brothers,  172. 

The  Wiuged  Worshippers,  201. 

STEDMAN,  EDMUND  CLARENCE. 
John  Brown  of  Osawatomie,  288. 

STERNHOLD,  THOMAS. 
Psalm  XVIII.,  501. 

STEVENS,  GEORGE  ALEXANDER. 
The  Storm,  108. 

SWAIN,  CHARLES. 
Dryburgh  Abbey,  220. 

SWAIN,  W.  W. 

Charade  :  A  bark  from  Targus',  216. 

Come  to  the  sports  of  our  wave- 
circled  isle,  208. 

Oh,  let  no  change  in  after  years,  209. 

The  Golden  Wedding,  656. 

The  Storm  Petrel,  217. 

Welcome  to  a  Supper  given  to  Dr. 
O.  W.  Holmes,  211. 

TANNAHILL,  ROBERT. 
The  Braes  of  Balquhidder,  51. 

TAYLOR,  HENRY. 
The  Lay  of  Elena,  157- 


TENNYSON,  ALFRED. 
Come  not,  when  I  am  dead,  457. 
Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere,  529. 
Lady  Clare,  532. 

The  Charge  of  the  Light  Brigade  at 
Balaklava,  280. 

THOMSON,  JAMES. 
Rule,  Britannia,  277. 

THORPE,  ROSA  HARTWICK. 
Curfew  must  not  ring  to-night,  343. 

TIMROD,  HENRY. 

Ode :    Sleep  sweetly  in  your  humble 
graves,  523. 

T.,  W.  L. 
Dorothy,  383. 

UPTON,  GEORGE  B. 
Life,  521. 

WADE,  J.  A. 
Meet  me  by  moonlight,  252. 

WALLER,  EDMUND. 

On  a  Girdle,  482. 

WASTELL,  SIMON. 
Man's  Mortality,  164. 

WATTS,  ISAAC. 

Before  Jehovah's  awful  throne,  57. 
From  all  that  dwell  below  the  skj^s, 

634. 
The  Heavenly  Land,  461. 

WEDDERBURN,  MR. 
On  Franklin,  251. 

WESLEY,  CHARLES. 
Come,  thou  Almighty  King,  121. 
Servant  of  God,  well  done  !  122. 

WEYMAN,  CHARLES  S. 
Fremont  and  Victory,  321. 


XV1U 


INDEX   OF  AUTHORS. 


WHITTIER,  JOHN  GREENLEAF. 

At  Port  Royal,  304. 

Barbara  Frietchie,  315. 

Ichabod,  513. 

It  may  not  be  our  lot  to  wield,  383. 

My  Playmate,  479. 

My  Psalm,  371. 

The  Angels  of  Buena  Vista,  352. 

WILLARD,  MRS. 
Rocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  deep,  1. 

WILLIAMS,  BISHOP  JOHN. 
Charade:  My  first,  beloved  of  many, 
225. 

WILLIAMS,  HELEN  MARIA. 
While  Thee  I  seek,  245. 

WILLIS,  NATHANIEL  PARKER. 
Lines  to  a  Lady,  64. 
The  Belfry  Pigeon,  165. 
The  Burial  o^Arnold,  126. 


WITHER,  GEORGE. 
The  Manly  Heart,  544. 

WOLFE,  CHARLES. 
Burial  of  Sir  John  Moore,  554. 

WOODWORTH,  SAMUEL. 
The  old  Oaken  Bucket,  362. 

WORDSWORTH,  WILLIAM. 

Rob  Roy's  Grave,  82. 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight,  185. 

WORK,  HENRY  C. 

Marching  through  Georgia,  314. 

WOTTON,  SIR  HENRY. 
The  Good  Man,  483. 

YOUNG,  EDWARD. 
The  Archer,  657. 


PAGE 

A  BARK  from  Targus'  golden  strand 216 

A  beggar  through  the  world  am  I 367 

Abou  Ben  Adhein  (may  his  tribe  increase  !) 493 

About  that  brow 6 

A  boy  sat  at  my  feet 340 

A  brow  austere,  a  circumspective  eye 40 

A  chieftain  to  the  Highlands  bound 570 

A  famous  man  is  Robin  Hood 82 

A  florist  a  sweet  little  blossom  espied '.......  653 

A  foe  is  heard  in  every  rustling  leaf 350 

Ah,  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh 59 

A  Highland  lad  my  love  was  born ,.     .     .  402 

Ah,  Mr.  B.,  't  is  halt-past  three 76 

A  life  on  the  ocean  wave 236 

Allen-a-Dale  has  no  fagot  for  burning 433 

Allons,  enfans  de  la  patrie 274 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac,  they  say 294 

All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights 31 

A  mist  was  driving  down  the  British  Channel 512 

"  And  I  could  weep,"  the  Oneida  chief 435 

And  thou  hast  walked  about  (how  strange  a  story  !) 116 

And  thou,  too,  of  the  snow-white  plume  ! 444 

And  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June  ? 381 

An  hour  with  thee  when  earliest  day 400 

Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky 358 

An  opal  gem,  the  island  lies 213 

Arethusa  arose 422 

A  roar  like  thunder  strikes  the  ear 282 

"A  sail!  a  sail !  "  —  a  promised  prize  to  Hope  ! 467 

As  I  look  from  the  isle,  o'er  its  billows  of  green 225 

Askest,  "How  long  thou  shalt  stay?" 618 


XX  INDEX    OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PAGE 

As  'raid  the  storm-cloud's  parting  veil .     .     .     .  211 

As  o'er  the  glacier's  frozen  sheet 654 

A  spirit  there  is,  whose  fragrant  sigh 173 

A  steed  —  a  steed  of  matchless  speed 151 

A  stillness  crept  about  the  house     .     .               599 

At  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay 608 

Ave  Sauctissima 1S8 

Awake,  my  soul,  stretch  every  nerve 123 

Away,  away  we  bound  o'er  the  deep 26 

Away,  o'er  the  wave  to  the  home  we  are  seeking 74 

A  weary  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid 572 

A  wet  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea 470 

Ay,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down  ! 516 

Banish  sorrow,  grief  is  folly 34 

Beautiful!     Sir,  you  may  say  so 555 

Before  Jehovah's  awful  throne .     .  57 

Begone !  dull  care 253 

Behold  —  not  him  we  knew 644 

Believe  me,  if  all  those  endearing  young  charms 180 

Beside  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way 633 

Better  a  sin  which  purposed  wrong  to  none 'M^ 

Better  trust  all,  and  be  deceived 1>7 

Between  the  dark  and  the  daylight 475 

Bid  me  discourse,  I  will  enchant  thine  ear 254 

k  Bird  of  the  wilderness 263 

Bird  of  untiring  wing 217 

Blest  of  the  highest  gods  are  they  whp  die     ...          646 

Bonny  Kilmeny  gaed  up  the  glen     .     1     .     .          4^5 

Boot,  saddle  to  horse  and  away  ! 589 

Born  in  the  garret,  in  the  kitchen  bred 426 

Breathes  there  a  man  with  soul  so  dead 575 

Breathe,  trumpets,  breathe  slow  notes  of  saddest  wailing 271 

"  Bring  forth  the  horse  !  "  —  the  horse  was  brought 468 

Bring  the  bowl  which  you  boast 5/4 

Bring  the  good  old  bugle,  boys,  we  '11  have  another  song 314 

Burly,  dozing  humble-bee  ! 324 

But  fare  you  weel,  auld  Nickie-ben !    .     .     .         602 

By  the  hope  within  us  springing 162 

By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood 594 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES.  xxi 

PAGE 

Calm  on  the  listening  ear  of  night 635 

Can  any  mixture  of  earth's  mould 63 

Cease  every  joy  to  glimmer  on  my  mind 57 

Cease,  rude  Boreas,  blustering  railer  ! 108 

Child  of  earth  with  the  golden  hair 256 

Clang,  clang,  —  the  massive  anvils  ring 87 

Come  boat  me  o'er,  come  row  me  o'er 233 

Come,  brave  with  me  the  sea,  love 239 

Come  live  with  me  and  be  my  love 262 

Come  not,  when  I  am  dead 457 

Come  take  the  harp,  my  gentle  one 650 

Come,  thou  Almighty  King 121 

Come  to  the  sports  of  our  wave-circled  isle 208 

Come,  ye  disconsolate,  where'er  ye  languish 636 

Crabbed  age  and  youth  cannot  live  together 269 

Dark  are  thy  woods,  and  severe 456 

Day  breaks  on  the  mountain 49 

Dear  Governor,  if  my  skill  might  brave 648 

Deep  in  the  wave  is  a  coral  grove 471 

Derriere  chez  vous  il  y  a  Fun  vert  bocage 105 

Distracted  with  care      .     .     .     ' 613 

Does  woman  always  love  where  she  is  loved  ? 149 

Drink  to  her  who  long • 140 

Drink  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes 544 

Drink  ye  to  her  that  each  loves  best 465 

"  Dry-lighted  soul,"  the  ray  that  shines  in  thee 323 

E'en  such  is  time,  which  takes  on  trust 186 

England's  sun  was  slowly  setting  o'er  the  hill-tops  far  away      ....  343 

Faintly  as  tolls  the  evening  chime 537 

Falsest  of  womankind,  canst  thou  declare 7S 

False  wizard,  avaunt !  I  have  marshalled  my  clan  . 605 

Fare  thee  well !  and  if  forever 403 

Fare  thee  well !  the  ship  is  ready 29 

Farewell !  farewell !  the  voice  you  hear 50 

Farewell,  farewell  to  thee,  Araby's  daughter ! 535 

Farewell !  if  ever  fondest  prayer 455 

Far,  far  beyond  the  blazing  wanderer's  quest 364 


xxn  INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PAGE 

Far  in  the  bosom  of  the  deep 477 

Father  of  all  !  in  every  age 462 

Fear  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun 551 

Fierce  the  sea  is,  and  fickle  if  fair 638 

Fill,  fill  the  sparkling  brimmer ! .     .     .  042 

Fill  the  bumper  fair  ! 138 

Fill  the  goblet  again  !  for  I  never  before 52 

Fly  to  the  desert,  fly  with  me 163 

For  he  that  thinks  to  slay  the  soul,  or  he  that  thinks  the  soul   ....  366 

For  thee,  Love,  —  for  thee,  Love 9 

Four  hundred  thousand  men 310 

Four  straight  brick  walls,  severely  plain 631 

From  all  that  dwell  below  the  skies 634 

From  distant  isles  a  chieftain  came 440 

From  Greenland's  icy  mountains 19 

From  his  brimstone  bed  at  break  of  day 430 

From  the  climes  of  the  sun,  all  war-worn  and  weary 133 

Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies 538 

Gay,  guiltless  pair .     .  201 

Gayly  the  Troubadour  touched  his  guitar 251 

Gaze  on  the  Abbey's  ruined  pile 69 

Gentle  Zitella,  whither  away  ? 259 

Give  all  to  love 628 

Good  frend  for  Jesus'  sake  forbeare 247 

Good  people  all,  of  every  sort 565 

Green  be  the  turf  above  thee 129 

"  Hafed,  my  own  beloved  lord  " 189 

Hail,  charming  power  of  self-opinion  ! 38 

Hail,  Columbia !  happy  land  ? 283 

Hail  to  the  Chief  who  in  triumph  advances  ! 578 

Hail  to  the  land  whereon  we  tread 115 

Half  a  league,  half  a  league 280 

Hark  !  the  little  drummer  beats  to  bed 183 

"  Harper !  methinks  thy  magic  lays  "  .     ^ 445 

Hast  thou  named  all  the  birds  without  a  gun  ? 378 

Hearken  in  your  ear 612 

Hear  what  Highland  Nora  said 427 

He  asked  me  had  I  yet  forgot 157 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES.  xxiii 

PAGE 

He  hath  been  mourned  as  brave  men  mourn  the  brave 351 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain 550 

Here,  a  sheer  hulk,  lies  poor  Tom  Bowling 267 

Here  awa',  there  awa',  wandering  Willie 404 

Here  lies  Boney,  stout  of  heart  and  limb 86 

Here  lies  the  body  of  John  Jack       ..." -.     .     .     .  99 

Here  's  a  health  to  them  that 's  awa' 230 

Her  eyes  the  glow-worme  lend  thee 545 

Hers  are  not  Tempo's  nor  Arcadia's  spring 363 

Her  side  is  in  the  water 391 

He  that  hath  sailed  upon  the  dark  blue  sea 77 

He  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek 625 

He  wandered  through  the  briery  woods .  240 

High  walls  and  huge  the  body  may  confine 246 

His  own  merits  perceiving,  sure  S through  the  land 53 

How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  childhood 362 

How  gayly  rows  the  gondolier 61 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught 483 

How  loud  amid  these  silent  aisles 73 

How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest 551 

How  stands  the  glass  around? / 71 

How  the  mountains  talked  together 335 

Humid  seal  of  soft  affections 393 

I  am  a  friar  of  orders  gray 524 

I  am  a  son  of  Mars,  who  have  been  in  many  wars 425 

I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying 284 

I  do  not  count  the  hours  I  spend 640 

If  I  had  a  beau 266 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 167 

If  I  speak  to  thee  in  friendship's  name 624 

If  the  pilgrim  did  not  falter 646 

If  the  red  slayer  think  he  slays -  366 

If  thou  dost  find      ....'.... 271 

I  had  a  message  to  send  her 105 

I  heard  the  trailing  garments  of  the  Night 365 

I  knew,  by  the  smoke  that  so  gracefully  curled 195 

I  '11  tell  thee  why  this  weary  world  meseemeth 90 

I  mourn  no  more  my  vanished  years 371 

I  'm  wearin'  awa',  Jean 620 


xxiv  INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PAGE 

In  Eastern  lands  they  talk  in  flowers 641 

In  form  and  feature,  face  and  limb 268 

In  Greece,  the  brave  heart's  Holy  Land 359 

In  May,  when  sea-winds  pierced  our  solitudes 3 85 

Insatiate  archer!  could  not  one  suffice  ? 657 

In  slumbers  of  midnight,  the  sailor  boy  lay 16 

In  the  deepest  death  of  midnight,  while  the  sad  and  solemn  swell  .     .     .  103 

In  the  prison  cell  I  sit,  thinking,  mother  dear,  of  you 318 

In  this  beloved  marble  view 28 

In  vain,  alas  !  in  vain,  ye  gallant  few 26 

In  vain  the  common' theme  my  tongue  would  shun 517 

I  remember,  I  remember,  how  my  childhood  fleeted  by 257 

I  remember,  I  remember,  the  house  where  I  was  born 584 

I  reside  at  Table  Mountain,  and  my  name  is  Truthful  James     ....  390 

Iron  was  his  chest 33 

I  saw  from  the  beach,  when  the  morning  was  shining 176 

I  saw  in  the  naked  forest 589 

I  saw  her  last  night  at  a  party 009 

I  see  them  on  their  winding  way 20 

I  shot  an  arrow  into  the  air 379 

I  slept,  and  dreamed  that  life  was  beauty 385 

I  sprang  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris,  and  he 603 

Is  the  hope  bright  ?  it  should  be  so 656 

Is  there  a  heart  that  never  loved 257 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty 484 

It  don't  seem  hardly  right,  John      .          595 

It  fell  about  the  Martinmas  time 614 

It  is  a  beautiful  belief 219 

It  is  time  to  be  old 380 

It  may  not  be  our  lot  to  wield 383 

It  was  not  that  her  radiant  eyes 658 

It  will  not  speak  ;  then  I  will  follow  it 454 

I 've  been  roaming  where  the  meadow  dew  is  sweet 252 

I  've  wandered  east,  I  've  wandered  west 46 

I  wandered  by  the  brookside 417 

I  would  I  had  a  charmed  boat 30 

I  would  not  live  alway  ;  I  ask  not  to  stay 326 

Jenny  kissed  me  when  we  met 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John 539 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES.  xxv 

PAGE 

John  Brown  hi  Kansas  settled,  like  a  steadfast  Yankee  farmer 288 

John  Brown's  body  lies  a-moulderiiig  in  the  grave 299 

John  puffs  himself;  forbear  to  chide 58 

Just  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us 515 

Know'st  thou  the  land  where  hangs  the  citron-flower 164 

Know  then 't  was  1 231 

Know  ye  the  land  where  the  bamboo  and  queue  are 25 

Know  ye  the  land  where  the  cypress  and  myrtle 414 

Lady,  although  we  have  not  met 388 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere       529 

Launch  thy  bark,  mariner ! 464 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall 67 

Let  others  laud  the  storm -defy  ing  oak 38 

Let  us  gae,  lassie,  gae 51 

Lie  on,  and  my  revenge  shall  be 41 

Life  !  I  know  not  what  thou  art 575 

Life  is  before  ye,  —  and  while  now  ye  stand 135 

Like  as  the  damask  rose  you  see 164 

Little  thinks,  in  the  field,  yon  red-cloaked  clown 368 

Look  not  thou  on  beauty's  charming 627 

Lord  Ronald  courted  Lady  Clare 532 

Love  not,  love  not !  ye  hapless  sons  of  clay  ! 58 

Love  thou  !  for  though  the  thing  thou  lov'st  must  die     .......  379 

Love  wakes  and  weeps 409 

Low  and  mournful  be  the  strain 346 

MacGaradh!  MacGaradh !  red  race  of  the  Tay 228 

Maid  of  Athens,  ere  we  part 410 

Man's  is  a  weary  pilgrimage 22 

March,  march,  Ettrick  and  Teviotdale  ! 580 

Maxweltou  braes  are  bonuie 238 

Meet  me  by  moonlight  alone ...  252 

Men  of  England  !  who  inherit 416 

Men  of  the  North,  who  remember 321 

Merrily,  merrily  bounds  the  bark 432 

"  Merry  England ! "  what  a  picture  do  these  simple  words  recall  ...  84 

Merry  it  is  in  the  good  greenwood 488 

'Mid  pleasures  and  palaces,  though  we  may  roam 234 


xxvi  INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PACE 

Mine  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord 298 

Move  my  armchair,  faithful  Pompey 292 

Mr.  Strahau,  —  You  are  a  member  of  Parliament    .    - 249 

My  boat  is  on  the  shore 27 

My  dear  and  only  love,  I  pray I7S 

My  first,  beloved  of  many  an  ancient  dame 225 

My  heart's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not  here 566 

My  iniude  to  me  a  kingdom  is 491 

My  son,  these  maxims  make  a  rule ,   .     .     .     .  428 

My  thoughts  are  bound  within  a  cell  of  care 367 

Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee 124 

No!  is  my  answer  from  this  cold,  bleak  ridge 518 

No,  it  is  not  a  poet's  dream 248 

No  martial  project  to  surprise 616 

No  more  the  summer  floweret  charms 215 

No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea 576 

Not  a  buck  was  shot,  nor  a  doe,  nor  a  fawn 212 

Not  a  drum  was  heard,  nor  a  funeral  note 554 

Not  by  thy  bed  of  tedious,  lingering  pain 386 

Now,  Britain,  let  thy  cliffs  o'  snaw 226 

Now,  dear  old  friend  of  many  years 658 

Now,  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  from  whom  all  glories  are     ....  155 

Now,  baud  your  tongue,  baith  wife  and  carle 568 

Now  launch  the  boat  upon  the  wave 118 

Now,  on  their  couch  of  rest 168 

O  child  of  paradise 387 

O  Columbia,  the  gem  of  the  ocean  .                    312 

O'er  the  far  blue  mountain,  o'er  the  white  sea-foam 25 

O'er  the  glad  waters  of  the  dark  blue  sea ....  472 

O  fair-haired  Northern  hero 293 

Of  a' the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw '    .     .     .     .  541 

"  Off,"  said  the  stranger,  "  off,  off,  and  away !  " 62 

Of  Nelson  and  the  North 505 

Oft  in  the  stilly  night 536 

O  gentle  Sleep,  who  oft  hast  cradled  me 370 

Oh !  a  dainty  plant  is  the  Ivy  green 636 

Oh,  bid  your  faithful  Ariel  fly 255 

Oh,  Brignall  banks  are  wild  and  fair 243 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES.  xxvii 

PAGE 

Oh,  ever  thus,  from  childhood's  hour 187 

Oh,  give  me  a  home  by  the  sea 241 

Oh,  had  we  some  bright  little  isle  of  our  own 141 

Oh,  haste  and  leave  this  sacred  isle 148 

Oh,  heard  ye  yon  pibroch  sound  sad  in  the  gale 528 

Oh,  hush  thee,  my  babie,  thy  sire  was  a  knight 254 

Oh,  leave  this  barren  spot  to  me 418 

Oh,  let  no  change  in  after  years 209 

Oh,  my  luve  's  like  a  red,  red  rose 542 

Oh,  saw  ye  bonnie  Lesley 401 

Oh,  say,  can  you  see  by  the  dawn's  early  light 287 

Oh,  swiftly  glides  the  bonny  boat 131 

Oh,  the  days  are  gone  when  beauty  bright 546 

Oh,  the  French  are  on  the  say 149 

Oh,  who  does  not  love  the  bugle-horn  ? 207 

Oh,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  West 526 

O  large  of  heart,  and  grand,  and  calm 309 

One  by  one  the  sands  are  flowing 92 

One  morn  a  Peri  at  the  gate 181 

One  night  came  on  a  hurricane  .     .     . 35 

One  still  lingered,  pale  and  last 56 

On  Jordan's  banks  the  Arab's  camels  stray 421 

On  knottiest  points  with  ease  debate 55 

On  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low 509 

On  the  cross-beam  under  the  Old  South  bell 165 

O  pescator  dell'  onde  Fidelin 240 

O  sunny  Love! " 189 

Our  bugles  sang  truce;  for  the  night-cloud  had  lowered 272 

Our  revels  now  are  ended.     These  our  actors 560 

O  wedding-guest,  this  soul  hath  been .453 

O  woman !  in  our  hours  of  ease 396 

Par  la  voix  du  canon  d'alarme 276 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu 21 

Prayer  is  the  soul's  sincere  desire 120 

Push  off  the  boat 448 

Rich  and  rare  were  the  gerns  she  wore 182 

Rise  !  for  the  day  is  passing 91 

Rise  up,  rise  up,  Xarifa  !  lay  the  golden  cushion  down 548 

River,  river,  little  river 96 


xxviii  INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PAGE 

Rocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  deep 1 

lloll  not  a  drum,  sound  not  a  clarion  note 306 

Row  gently  here 132 

Ruin  seize  thee,  ruthless  king  ! 561 

Sacred  to  the  memory  of  Timothy  John 188 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled 501 

Seasons  have  passed  away 221 

Send  danger  from  the  east  unto  the  west 503 

Servant  of  God,  well  done  ! 122 

Shades  of  evening,  close  not  o'er  us 61 

Shall  I  tell  you  whom  I  love  ? 621 

Shall  I,  wasting  in  despair 544 

Shall  we  ever  meet  again 107 

She  bends  above  me  like  a  night 147 

She  flung  her  white  arms  around  him  :  "  Thou  art  all 66 

She  has  gone  down,  they  shout  it  from  afar 308 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing 75 

She  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  young  hero  sleeps 407 

She  walks  in  beauty  like  the  night 477 

She  was  a  phantom  of  delight 185 

She  was  not  as  pretty  as  women  I  know 397 

Should  he  upbraid,  I '11  own  that  he  prevail 253 

Sigh  no  more,  ladies,  sigh  no  more  ! 269 

Silent  friends,  fare  ye  well ! 142 

Since  our  country,  our  God,  O  my  sire  !  .     .     .• 500 

Sir  Hilary  charged  at  Agincourt ~  .  223 

Sleep,  sleep  to-day,  tormenting  cares 457 

Sleep  sweetly  in  your  humble  graves 523 

Slowly  the  mist  o'er  the  meadow  was  creeping 286 

Slowly  with  measured  tread 79 

So  fallen !  so  lost !  the  light  withdrawn ,.     .  513 

Soft  and  softlier  hold  me,  friends  ! 643 

Soft  gleams  the  October  sun 217 

Soldier,  rest  !  thy  warfare  o'er 260 

Solemnly  he  paced  the  schooner's  quarter-deck 13 

So  let  them  ease  their  hearts  with  prate 77 

Some  love  to  roam  o'er  the  dark  sea-foam      .     .     .     .  ' 178 

Sound,  sound  the  clarion,  fill  the  fife  ! 82 

Sound  the  loud  timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea 202 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  LIXES.  xxix 

PAGE 

Sparkling  and  bright  in  liquid  light 237 

Speak  and  tell  us,  our  Ximena,  looking  northward  far  away      .     .     .     .  352 

Speak!  speak!  thou  fearful  guest ! 5  So 

Spirits  which  hover  round  me,  ye  whose  wings 250 

Star  of  the  brave,  whose  beam  hath  shed 415 

Star  of  the  twilight  gray 231 

Stars,  —  radiant  stars 94 

Steer  hither,  steer  your  winged  pines 628 

Still  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest 482 

Stranger,  thou  readest  carelessly 386 

Summer  eve  is  gone  and  past 263 

Sunday  in  Old  England 4 630 

Take,  holy  earth,  all  that  my  soul  holds  dear     .     .     .     .- 632 

Take,  oh,  take  those  lips  away ,     .     .     .  543 

Talk  no  more  of  the  lucky  escape  of  the  head 44 

Tell  her  I  '11  love  her  while  the  clouds  drop  rain 247 

Tell  me,  kind  Seer,  I  pray  thee 408 

Tell  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers 373 

Tell  me  not  of  joys  above „ 183 

Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind 47S 

Tell  me,  where  is  fancy  bred 541 

Tender-handed  stroke  a  nettle 38 

That  which  her  slender  waist  confined 482 

The  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold 522 

The  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck 134 

The  breaking  waves  dashed  high 3 

The  bridegroom  may  forget  the  bride 455 

The  Campbells  are  comin',  oho,  oho  ! 270 

The  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels •  .  o99 

The  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day 496 

The  Deil  cam  fiddling  through  the  town 429 

The  Dervish  whined  to  Said 339 

The  dews  of  summer  night  did  fall 42 

The  first  was  a  vision  with  flaxen  hair 36 

The  gipsies  cam  to  our  Laird's  yett      .     .               142 

The  glories  of  our  birth  and  state 497 

The  grave  is  but  a  calmer  bed 56 

The  groves  were  God's  first  temples 637 

The  hand  of  religion  is  potent  to  save 146 


xxx  INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PAGE 

The  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls 539 

Their  praise  is  hymned  by  loftier  harps  than  mine 54 

The  Isles  of  Greece,  the  Isles  of  Greece  ! 582 

The  king  was  on  his  throne 601 

The  leaf  floats  by  upon  the  stream 64 

The  little  gate  was  reached  at  last 593 

The  Lord  descended  from  above 501 

The  melancholy  -days  are  come,  the  saddest  of  the  year 469 

The  Merchant  Prince  of  England 101 

The  Minstrel  boy  to  Jhe  war  is  gone 156 

The  moon  is  up,  the  evening  star 14 

The  moon  shines  bright  in  such  a  night  as  this 413 

The  moon 's  on  the  lake,  and  the  mist 's  on  the  brae 436 

The  mountain  and  the  squirrel 377 

The  music  clamors  shrill  and  loud 218 

The  night  is  come,  but  not  too  soon 372 

The  outmost  crowd  have  heard  a  sound 449 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers, — where  are  they  r1 128 

The  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth  hill 479 

The  prophet  Balaam  was  in  wonder  lost 48 

The  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained 617 

There  came  to  the  beach  a  poor  exile  of  Erin 2 

There  is  a  land  of  pure  delight 461 

There  is  a  light  cloud  by  the  moon 521 

There  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods 420 

There  is  a  tear  for  all  that  die 458 

There  is  not  in  the  wide  world  a  valley  so  sWeet 153 

There  is  something  in  sickness  that  breaks  down  the  pride  of  manhood    .  86 

There  's  a  bliss  beyond  all  that  the  minstrel  has  told .  163 

There  's  a  bower  of  roses  by  Beudemeer's  stream .  173 

There  's  a  fierce  gray  bird,  with  a  bending  beak 113 

There 's  a  flag  hangs  over  my  threshold,  whose  folds 296 

There  sat  one  day  in  quiet , 597 

There  's  nought  but  care  on  ev'ry  lian' 23 

There  stands,  in  the  garden  of  old  St.  Mark 210 

There  was  a  deep  ravine  that  lay 611 

There  was  a  listening  fear  in  her  regard 104 

There  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night 510 

The  rocky  nook  with  hill-tops  three 319, 

The  scene  was  more  beautiful  far  to  my  eye 184 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES.  xxxi 

PAGE 

The  soldier  tired  of  war's  alarms 270 

The  song  bird  has  flown  from  our  sea-girded  isle 227 

The  spacious  firmament  on  high 499 

The  stars  their  early  vigils  keep 330 

The  sun  had  set 651 

The  tent -lights  glimmer  on  the  laud 304 

The  time  I  've  lost  in  wooing 177 

The  track  of  the  road  followed  the  course  of  the  brook 81 

The  turf  shall  be  my  fragrant  shrine 203 

The  waters  are  flashing 405 

The  weather-leech  of  the  topsail  shivers .     .  473 

The  \vild  gazelle  on  Judah's  hills 419 

The  winds  of  March  are  humming 10 

The  wisest  man  could  ask  no  more  of  fa'te 382 

The  world  is  bright  before  thee 387 

They  fought  —  like  brave  men,  long  and  well 355 

They  gave  the  fatal  order,  —  Charge  ! 278 

They  made  her  a  grave,  too  cold  and  damp ;     ...  525 

The  young  May  moon  is  beaming,  love 198 

Thine  eyes  still  shone  for  me,  though  far 627 

Think  me  not  unkind  and  rude 626 

This  bright  wood-fire 199 

This  is  the  state  of  life,  — a  passing  shadow 3 

This  world  is  all  a  fleeting  show 204 

Those  evening  bells  !  those  evening  bells ! 18 

Thou  soft-flowing  Avon,  by  thy  silver  stream 258 

Thou  who  within  thyself  dost  not  behold 195 

Thus  said  the  Rover 487 

'T  is  done  —  but  yesterday  a  king 39 

'T  is  ever  thus,  't  is  ever  thus,  when  hope  has  built  a  bower      ....  54 

'T  is  not  the  gray  hawk's  flight ; -.     .  169 

To-day  I  '11  haste  to  quaff  my  wine 104 

Toll  for  the  brave 552 

Too  long,  too  long  a  masquer,  Arthur  comes 607 

To  sigh,  yet  feel  no  pain 194 

To  the  dim  and  gloomy  shore 72 

To  the  Lords  of  Convention  't  was  Claverhouse  who  spoke 547 

'T  was  morn,  but  not  the  ray  which  falls  the  summer  boughs  among  .     .  220 

'T  was  the  hour  when  rites  unholy 411 

'T  was  whispered  in  heaven,  and  't  was  muttered  in  hell 395 


xxxii  INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PAGE 

Twice  hath  the  sun  upon  their  conflict  set 175 

Twist  ye,  twine  ye  !  even  so 459 

Two  hundred  years,  —  two  hundred  years .  5 

Underneath  this  stone  doth  lye .  426 

Under  the  greenwood  tree 540 

Untouched  by  love,  the  maiden's  breast 41 

Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn 315 

Up,  spaniel,  —  the  hunter  is  winding  his  horn 97 

Vital  spark  of  heavenly  flame 125 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay 567 

War  !  war  !  no  peace  !  peace  is  to  me  a  war 466 

Way  down  upon  de  Swaunee  Bibber 235 

We  are  butiwo, —  the  others  sleep 172 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abra'am,  three  hundred  thousand  more     .     .     .  302 

We  believe  that  fate  is  less  capricious  than  is  imagined 78 

We  '11  shed  no  tear,  we  '11  breathe  no  sigh          521 

We  sit  here  in  the  Promised  Land 323 

What  ails  thee,  Dei-vise  ?  eat,  —  dost  thou  suppose 450 

What  a  pang  of  sweet  emotion 396 

What  are  you  doing  now 28 

What  fairy-like  music 63 

What  shall  I  do  with  all  the  days  and  hours 205 

What 's  hallowed  ground  ?     Has  earth  a  clod 459 

What  strange,  deep  secret  dost  thou  hold,  O  death 96 

Wha  will  ride  wi'  gallant  Murray  ? 232 

When  all  was  hushed  at  eventide 437 

When  breezes  are  soft  and  skies  are  fair 361 

When  Britain  first,  at  Heaven's  command 277 

When  coldness  wraps  this  suffering  clay 498 

When  Freedom  from  her  mountain  height 300 

When  freshly  blows  the  northern  gale :.     ...  198 

When  I  am  dead,  no  pageant  train 110 

When  in  death  I  shall  calm  reeline 154 

When  Israel,  of  the  Lord  beloved 581 

When  love  with  unconfined  wings 619 

When  melancholy,  born  of  sin 647 

When  o'er  the  silent  seas  alone  .     .                        ........  130 


INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES.  xxxiii 

PAUE 

When  princely  Hamilton's  abode 190 

When  shall  we  all  meet  again  ? 617 

When  shall  we  three  meet  again  ? 466 

When  the  British  warrior  queen > .  502 

When  the  dying  flame  of  day 592 

When  the  glow-worm  gilds  the  elfin  flower 255 

When  the  hours  of  Day  are  numbered 376 

When  the  oldest  cask  is  opened 179 

When  the  tide's  billowy  swell 59 

When  Time,  Avho  steals  our  years  away 24 

When  twilight  dews  are  falling  soft 193 

When  you  mournfully  rivet  your  tear-laden  eyes 186 

Where,  oh,  where  are  the  visions  of  morning 375 

Where  olive-leaves  were  twinkling  in  every  wind  that  blew 357 

Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I .  538 

Which  I  wish  to  remark .557 

While  the  dawu  on  the  mountain  was  misty  and  gray 573 

While  thee  I  seek,  protecting  Power  ! 2io 

Who  counts  himself  as  nobly  born 559 

Whoe'er  he  be 622 

Who  has  not  heard  of  the  Vale  of  Cashmere 160 

Who  rides  there  so  late  through  the  night  dark  and  drear  ? 196 

Who  will  believe  that,  with  a  smile  whose  blessing 338 

Why  sitt'st  thou  by  that  ruined  hall 452 

Why  thus  longing,  thus  forever  sighing 327 

Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladie  ? 394 

Wild  rose  of  Alloway  !  my  thanks 331 

Wild  roved  an  Indian  girl,  bright  Alfarata 245 

Will  ye  gang  to  the  Hielan's,  Leezie  Lindsay  ? 261 

Wilt  thou  not  waken,  Bride  of  May 65 

Wilt  thou  tempt  the  waves  with  me 650 

Withdraw  not  yet  those  lips  and  fingers 456 

With  feelings  strange  and  undefined  I  gaze  upon  thy  face 15 

WTithin  this  awful  volume  lies 634 

Within 'twas  brilliant  all  and  light 412 

Woo  her  when  with  rosy  blush 60 

Would  ye  be  taught,  ye  feathered  throng 45 

Ye  are  gone,  ye  are  gone,  friends  of  my  youth 12 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bounie  Doon 242 

Ye  gentlemen  of  England 264 

c 


xxxiv  INDEX   OF  FIRST  LINES. 

PAGE 

Ye  hunters  of  Kew  Eiiglaud 206 

Ye  mariuers  of  Eiiglaud  ! 507 

Ye  mariners  of  Spain    ....          152 

Yes,  we  '11  rally  round  the  flag,  boys,  rally  once  again 313 

Yet  a  few  days,  and  thee 494 

Ye  've  gathered  to  your  place  of  prayer     .          126 

You  know  we  French  stormed  llatisbou  .           -27't 

You  remember  Ellen,  our  hamlet's  pride 197 

You  say  that  my  love  is  plain 383 

You  tell  me  you  're  promised  a  lover 7 

You  wonder  whv  1  still  would  seek      ....           .                ....  100 


AN    OLD    SCRAP-BOOK, 


WITH    ADDITIONS. 


AN    OLD    SCRAP-BOOK, 

WITH    ADDITIONS. 


EOCKED   IN   THE   CEADLE   OF   THE  DEEP. 

EOCKED  in  the  cradle  of  the  deep, 
I  lay  me  down  in  peace  to  sleep ; 
Secure  I  rest  upon  the  wave, 
For  thou,  O  Lord,  hast  power  to  save. 
I  know  thou  wilt  not  slight  my  call, 
For  thou  dost  note  the  sparrow's  fall ; 
And  calm  and  peaceful  is  my  sleep, 
Eocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  deep. 

And  such  the  trust  that  still  were  mine, 
Though  stormy  winds  swept  o'er  the  brine, 
Or  though  the  tempest's  fiery  breath 
Eoused  me  from  sleep  to  wreck  and  death  ! 
In  ocean  cave  still  safe  with  Thee, 
The  germ  of  immortality  ; 
And  calm  and  peaceful  is  my  sleep, 
Eocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  deep. 

MRS.  WILLARD. 

A  nursery  song  ;  the  earliest  thing  I  remember,  probably  1816. 

1 


EXILE   OF  ERIN. 


EXILE   OF  EEIN. 

THERE  came  to  the  beach  a  poor  exile  of  Erin, 

The  dew  on  his  thin  robe  was  heavy  and  chill ; 
For  his  country  he  sighed,  when  at  twilight  repairing 

To  wander  alone  by  the  wind-beaten  hill. 

But  the  day-star  attracted  his  eye's  sad  devotion, 

For  it  rose  o'er  his  own  native  isle  of  the  ocean, 

Where  once,  in  the  fire  of  his  youthful  emotion, 

He  sang  the  bold  anthem  of  Erin  go  bragh. 

Sad  is  my  fate  !  said  the  heart-broken  stranger : 
The  wild  deer  and  wolf  to  a  covert  can  flee, 

But  I  have  no  refuge  from  famine  and  danger, 
A  home  and  a  country  remain  not  to  me. 

Never  again  in  the  green  sunny  bowers 

Where  my  forefathers  lived,  shall  I  spend  the  sweet  hours, 

Or  cover  my  harp  with  the  wild  woven  flowers, 
And  strike  to  the  numbers  of  Erin  go  bragh. 

Erin,  my  country  !  though  sad  and  forsaken, 

In  dreams  I  revisit  thy  sea-beaten  shore ; 
But,  alas  !  in  a  far  foreign  land  I  awaken, 

And  sigh  for  the  friends  who  can  meet  me  no  more ! 
0  cruel  fate !  wilt  thou  never  replace  me 
In  a  mansion  of  peace,  where  no  perils  can  chase  me  ? 
Never  again  shall  my  brothers  embrace  me  ? 

They  died  to  defend  me,  or  live  to  deplore ! 

Yet,  all  its  sad  recollections  suppressing, 
One  dying  wish  my  lone  bosom  can  draw : 

Erin  !  an  exile  bequeaths  thee  his  blessing  ! 
Land  of  my  fathers  !  Erin  go  bragh  ! 


LANDING   OF   THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS.  3 

Buried  and  cold,  when  my  heart  stills  her  motion, 

Green  be  thy  fields,  sweetest  isle  of  the  ocean ! 

And  thy  harp-striking  bards  sing  aloud,  with  devotion, 

Erin  inavourmn  —  Erin  go  bragh  ! 

CAMPBELL. 

First  copied  by  me  about  1821  ;  a  schoolboy  taste. 


LIFE. 

THIS  is  the  state  of  life,  —  a  passing  shadow  will  throw  down 
the  baseless  fabric  of  man's  hopes.  And  when  the  tablets  of 
this  fleeting  state  are  charactered  with  all  felicity,  comes  Death 
with  a  sponge  moistened  in  gall,  and  wipes  the  beauteous 
lineaments  away.  OlD  GREE,  AuTHOE 

Read  by  Mr.  XAZUO,  Elocution  master,  at  ROUND  HILL,  1827. 


THE   LANDING   OF   THE   PILGEIM   FATHERS   IX 
NEW  ENGLAND. 

THE  breaking  waves  dashed  high 
On  a  stern  and  rock-bound  coast, 

And  the  woods  against  a  stormy  sky 
Their  giant  branches  tossed  ; 

And  the  heavy  night  hung  dark, 

The  hills  and  waters  o'er, 
When  a  band  of  exiles  moored  their  bark 

On  the  wild  New  England  shore. 

Not  as  the  conqueror  comes, 

They,  the  true-hearted,  came  ; 
Not  with  the  roll  of  the  stirring  drums, 

And  the  trumpet  that  sings  of  fame ; 


LANDING   OF   THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS. 

Not  as  the  flying  come, 

In  silence  and  in  fear  ;  — 
They  shook  the  depths,  of  the  desert  gloom 

With  their  hymns  of  lofty  cheer. 

Amidst  the  storm  they  sang, 

And  the  stars  heard,  and  the  sea ; 
And  the  sounding  aisles  of  the  dim  woods  rang 

To  the  anthem  of  the  free. 

The  ocean  eagle  soared 

From  his  nest  by  the  white  wave's  foam  ; 
And  the  rocking  pines  of  the  forest  roared,  — 

This  was  their  welcome  home. 

There  were  men  with  hoary  hair 

Amidst  the  pilgrim  band  : 
Why  had  they  come  to  wither  there, 

Away  from  their  childhood's  land  ? 

There  was  woman's  fearless  eye, 

Lit  by  her  deep  love's  truth ; 
There  was  manhood's  brow  serenely  high, 

And  the  fiery  heart  of  youth. 

What  sought  they  thus  afar  ? 

Bright  jewels  of  the  mine  ? 
The  wealth  of  seas,  the  spoils  of  war  ?  — 

They  sought  a  faith's  pure  shrine. 

Ay,  call  it  holy  ground, 

The  soil  where  first  they  trod ; 
They  have  left  unstained  what  there  they  found,  — 

Freedom  to  worship  God. 

MRS.  HEMAXS. 

Copied  :   CANTON,  Dec.  23,  1830. 


ANNIVERSARY  HYMN. 


FOR  THE  TWO   HUNDREDTH  ANNIVERSARY  OF 
THE   SETTLEMENT   OE   CHARLESTOWN. 

Two  hundred  years, —  two  hundred  years, — 
How  much  of  human  power  and  pride, 

What  glorious  hopes,  what  gloomy  fears, 
Have  sunk  beneath  their  noiseless  tide ! 

The  red  man,  at  his  horrid  rite, 

Seen  by  the  stars  at  night's  cold  noon,  — 

His  bark  canoe,  its  track  of  light 

Left  on  the  wave  beneath  the  moon,  — 

His  dance,  his  yell,  his  council  fire,  • 

The  altar  where  his  victim  lay, 
His  death  song,  and  his  funeral  pyre,  — 

That  still,  strong  tide  hath  borne  away. 

And  that  pale  pilgrim  band  is  gone, 
That  on  this  shore  with  trembling  trod, 

Ready  to  faint,  yet  bearing  on 
The  ark  of  freedom  and  of  God. 

And  war,  that,  since,  o'er  ocean  came, 

And  thundered  loud  from  yonder  hill, 
And  wrapped  its  foot  in  sheets  of  flame, 

To  blast  that  ark,  —  its  storm  is  still. 

Chief,  sachem,  sage,  bards,  heroes,  seers, 

That  live  in  story  and  in  song, 
Time,  for  the  last  two  hundred  years, 

Has  raised,  and  shown,  and  swept  along. 


ABOUT   THAT  BROW. 

'T  is  like  a  dream  when  one  awakes,  — 
This  vision  of  the  scenes  of  old ; 

'T  is  like  the  moon  when  morning  breaks  ; 
'T  is  like  a  tale  round  watch-fires  told. 

Then  what  are  we,  —  then  what  are  we  ?  — 
Yes,  when  two  hundred  years  have  rolled 

O'er  our  green  graves,  our  names  shall  be 
A  morning  dream,  a  tele  that 's  told. 

God  of  our  fathers,  in  whose  sight 
The  thousand  years,  that  sweep  away 

Man,  and  the  traces  of  his  might, 
Are  but  the  break  and  close  of  day, 

Grant  us  that  love  of  truth  sublime, 
That  love  of  goodness  and  of  thee, 

That  makes  thy  children,  in  all  time, 
To  share  thine  own  eternity. 

PIERPONT. 

Copied  :  CANTON,  Dec.  23,  1830. 


ABOUT  THAT   BEOW. 

ABOUT  that  brow 

Ne'er  did  a  smile  in  dimples  shine 
That  I  Ve  forgotten  now  : 

No,  I  remember  all 
Thy  winning  power, 

And  oft  will  memory  recall 
The  rapture  of  that  hour 

When  broke  upon  my  longing  sight 


A    LETTER   OF  ADVICE. 

Thy  form,  as  welcome  then 

As  the  first  beam  of  morning  light 
To  lone,  benighted  men. 

Away !  —  my  bark  upon  the  wave 

Is  riding  now ; 
The  ebbing  tide's  last  ripples  lave 

Her  curling  prow. 
Upon  her  deck  my  foot  must  tread, 

Unfurled  her  sail ; 
On  the  blue  wave  my  path  be  sped, 

Before  the  swelling  gale. 
But  ere  I  go  I  ask  of  thee, 

Maiden,  a  boon : 
Bestow  but  one  brief  thought  on  me 

When  I  am  gone. 

ANONYMOUS. 

Copied  :  CANTON,  Dec.  23,  1830. 


A   LETTER   OF   ADVICE   FROM   MISS   M.   T. 
TO  ARAMINTA. 

You  tell  me  you  're  promised  a  lover, 

My  own  Araminta,  next  week  ; 
Why  cannot  my  fancy  discover 

The  hue  of  his  coat  and  his  cheek  ? 
Alas,  if  he  look  like  another, 

A  vicar,  a  banker,  a  beau, 
Be  deaf  to  your  father  and  mother, 

My  own  Araminta,  say  No ! 


A    LETTER    OF  ADVICE. 
\ 

If  he  wear  a  top-boot  in  his  wooing, 

If  he  come  to  you  riding  a  cob, 
If  he  talk  of  his  baking  or  brewing, 

If  he  puts  up  his  feet  on  the  hob, 
If  he  ever  drinks  port  after  dinner, 

If  his  brow  or  his  breeding  is  low, 
If  he  calls  himself  "  Thompson  "  or  "  Skinuer,: 

My  own  Araminta,  say  No  ! 

If  he  studies  the  news  in  the  papers 

While  you  are  preparing  the  tea, 
If  he  talks  of  the  damps  and  the  vapors 

While  moonlight  lies  soft  on  the  sea, 
If  he  's  sleepy  while  you  are  capricious, 

If  he  has  not  a  musical  "  Oh," 
If  he  does  not  call  Werther  delicious, 

My  own  Araminta,  say  No ! 

If  he  ever  sets  foot  in  the  city 

Among  the  stock-brokers  and  Jews,  ' 
If  he  has  not  a  heart  full  of  pity, 

If  he  don't  stand  six  feet  in  his  shoes, 
If  his  lips  are  not  redder  than  roses, 

If  his  hands  are  not  whiter  than  snow, 
If  he  has  not  the  model  of  noses, 

My  own  Araminta,  say  No ! 

If  he  speak  of  a  tax  or  a  duty, 

If  he  does  not  look  grand  on  his  knees, 
If  he  's  blind  to  a  landscape  of  beauty,  — 

Hills,  valleys,  rocks,  waters,  and  trees, — 
If  he  dotes  not  on  desolate  towers, 

If  he  likes  not  to  hear  the  blast  blow, 
If  he  knows  not  the  language  of  flowsrs, 

My  own  Araminta,  say  No ! 


FOR    THEE,  LOVE,  — FOR    THEE,  LOVE. 

He  must  walk  like  a  god  of  old  story 

Come  down  from  the  home  of  his  rest ; 
He  must  smile  like  the  sun  in  his  glory 

On  the  buds  he  loves  ever  the  best ; 
,  And  oh,  from  his  ivory  portal, 

Like  music  the  soft  speech  must  flow  : 
If  he  speak,  smile,  or  walk  like  a  mortal, 

My  own  Araminta,  say  No  ! 

Don't  listen  to  tales  of  his  bounty, 
Don't  hear  what  they  tell  of  his  birth, 

Don't  look  at  his  seat  in  the  county, 
Don't  calculate  what  he  is  worth, 

But  give  him  a  theme  to  write  verse  on, 
And  see  if  he  turn  out  his  toe ; 

If  he  's  only  an  excellent  person, 

My  own  Araminta,  say  No  ! 

ANONYMOUS. 

Copied  :  CANTON,  Dec.  25,  1830. 


FOE  THEE,  LOVE, —  FOR  THEE,  LOVE. 

FOE  thee,  Love,  —  for  thee,  Love, 

I  '11  brave  Fate's  sternest  storm ; 
She  cannot  daunt  or  chill  the  heart 

That  love  keeps  bold  and  warm. 
And  when  her  clouds  are  blackest,  nought 

But  thy  sweet  self  I  '11  see, 
Nor  hear  amidst  the  tempest  aught 

But  thee,  Love,  —  only  thee  ! 

For  thee,  Love,  —  for  thee,  Love, 
My  fond  heart  would  resign 


10  SONG. 

The  brightest  cup  that  Pleasure  fills, 
And  Fortune's  wealthiest  mine ; 

For  Pleasure's  smiles  are  vanity, 
And  fortunes  fade  or  flee  : 

There  's  purity  and  constancy 
In  thee,  Love,  —  only  thee. 

For  thee,  Love,  —  for  thee,  Love, 

Life  's  lonely  vale  1 11  tread, 
And  aid  thy  steps  the  journey  through, 

Nor  quit  thee  till  I  'm  dead. 
And  even  then  round  her  I  love 

My  shade  shall  hovering  be, 
And  warble  notes  from  heaven  above, 

To  thee,  Love,  —  only  thee. 

ANONYMOUS. 
Copied  in  CHINA. 


SONG. 

AIR  :  "  To  ladies'  eyes  a  round,  boy." 

MOORE.' 

THE  winds  of  March  are  humming 

Their  parting  song,  their  parting  song, 
And  summer  skies  are  coming, 

And  days  grow  long,  and  days  grow  long. 
I  watch,  but  not  in  gladness, 

Our  garden  tree,  our  garden  tree  ; 
It  buds,  in  sober  sadness, 

Too  soon  for  me,  too  soon  for  me. 
My  second  winter  's  over, 

Alas  !  and  I,  alas  !  and  I 
Have  no  accepted  lover : 

Don't  ask  me  why,  don't  ask  me  why. 


SONG.  11 

'T  is  not  asleep  or  idle 

That  love  has  been,  that  love  has  been ; 
For  many  a  happy  bridal 

The  year  has  seen,  the  year  has  seen ; 
I  Ve  done  a  bridesmaid's  duty 

At  three  or  four,  at  three  or  four ; 
My  best  bouquet  had  beauty, 
Its  donor  more,  its  donor  more. 
My  second  winter  's  over, 

Alas  !  and  I,  alas  !  and  I 
Have  no  accepted  lover  : 

Don't  ask  me  why;  don't  ask  me  why. 

His  flowers  my  bosom  shaded, 

One  sunny  day,  one  sunny  day ; 
The  next  they  fled  and  faded, 

Beau  and  bouquet,  beau  and  bouquet. 
In  vain,  at  balls  and  parties, 

I  Ve  thrown  my  net,  I  Ve  thrown  my  net ; 
This  waltzing,  watching  heart  is 
Unchosen  yet,  unchosen  yet. 

My  second  winter  's  over, 

Alas  !  and  I,  alas  !  and  I 
Have  no  accepted  lover  : 

Don't  ask  me  why,  don't  ask  me  why. 

They  tell  me  there  rs  no  hurry 

For  Hymen's  ring,  for  Hymen's  ring ; 
And  I  'm  too  young  to  marry  : 

'T  is  no  such  thing,  't  is  no  such  thing. 
The  next  spring  tides  will  dash  on 

My  eighteenth  year,  my  eighteenth  year ; 
It  puts  me  in  a  passion, 

Oh  dear,  oh  dear  !  oh  dear,  oh  dear ! 


3  TIME. 

i       i 

My  second  winter's  over, 
.  Alas  !  and  I,  alas !  and  I 
Have  no  accepted  lover : 

Don't  ask  ine  why,  don't  ask  me  why. 

HALLECK. 
Copied  in  CHINA  from  a  newspaper  :  since  found  to  be  HALLECK'S. 


TIME. 

YE  are  gone,  ye  are  gone,  friends  of  my  youth, 
In  the  spring-time  of  hope  and  love ; 

Ye  are  gone  in  the  bloom  of  unfading  truth 
To  the  stainless  worlds  above. 

I  '11  not  weep  for  you,  friends  of  my  youth, 

Nor  sigh  o'er  your  ruined  prime  ; 
Death,  the  proud  archer,  hath  more  of  truth 

Than  the  stately  graybeard,  Time. 

He  comes  but  the  fleeting  hues  to  steal, 

Of  the  cheek's  carnation  dye, 
Or  the  print  of  his  iron  hand  to  seal 

On  the  eyes'  dark  brilliancy. 

Death  can  but  sever  the  mortal  link 

That  bindeth  the  kindred  clay, 
Whilst  bright  through  the  archway's  ruined  chink 

Faith's  golden  sunbeams  stray. 

But  Time,  the  rude  spoiler,  comes,  alas ! 

With  a  heavier,  deeper  woe ; 
Wasting  our  years,  like  the  sands  of  his  glass, 

In  a  dull  and  certain  flow. 


THE   QUAKER   MEETING-HOUSE.  13 

In  friendship's  wane  and  passion's  decline, 

There 's  nothing  on  earth  so  dear 
As  the  twinkling  lights  which  again  may  shins 

In  a  distant  hemisphere. 

Oh,  Death,  the  proud  archer,  hath  more  of  truth 
Than  the  stealthy  graybeard,  Time. 

M.  A.  C. 

Copied  in  CHINA  :  only  identified  by  the  initials. 


THE   QUAKER   MEETIXG-HOUSfE. 

SOLEMNLY  he  paced  the  schooner's  quarter-deck, 
And  of  his  many  hardships  thus  he  muttered :  — 

"  I  have  been  where  the  wild  waves  of  the  Missouri 

Have  dashed  in  on  the  '  Sawyer ; ' 

I  have  been  where  my  keel  has  'scaped  the  coral  rock 

In  Madagascar  seas ; 

But  never  in  all  my  sad  experiences  of  harm 

Met  I  a  Quaker  Meeting-house ! 

It  comes  in  so  questionable  a  shape 

I  cannot  even  speak  it ! 

So  up  jib,  Josey,  and  steer  for  Xewport ! " 

ANONYMOUS  (American  Watchman). 

Copied  :  April  30,  1831. 


14  THE  MOON  IS    UP,    THE  EVENING  STAR. 


THE   MOON   IS   UP,   THE   EVENING   STAR 

THE  moon  is  up,  the  evening  star 
Shines  lonely  from  its  home  of  blue, 

The  fox  howl 's  heard  from  the  fell  afar, 
And  the  earth  is  robed  in  sombre  hue ; 

From  the  shores  of  light  the  beams  come  down 

On  the  river's  breast  and  the  cold  grave-stone. 

The  kindling  fires  in  heaven  so  bright 
Look  sweetly  out  from  yon  azure  sky, 

While  the  glittering  pearls  of  the  dewy  night 
Seem  trying  to  mimic  their  brilliancy  ; 

Yet  all  these  charms  no  joy  can  bring 

To  the  dead  in  the  cold  grave  slumbering. 

To  numbers  wild,  yet  sweet  withal, 

Should  the  harp  be  struck  on  the  sleepy  pillow, 
Soft  murmuring,  as  the  breezes  fall. 

Of  sighing  winds  on  the  foamy  billow ; 
For  who  would  disturb,  in  their  silent  bed, 
The  fancied  dreams  of  the  lonely  dead  ? 

Oh,  is  there  one  in  this  world  can  say 
That  the  soul  exists  not  after  death, 

That  the  powers  which  illumine  this  mould  of  clay 
Are  but  a  puff  of  common  breath  ? 

Oh,  come  this  night  to  the  grave  and  see 

The  sleepy  state  of  your  destiny. 

I've  seen  the  moon  gild  the  mountain's  brow, 
I  Ve  watched  the  mist  over  the  river  stealing ; 


TO  A   NEWLY  OPENED   OYSTER.  15 

But  ne'er  did  I  feel  in  my  breast  till  now 
So  calm,  so  pure,  and  so  holy  a  feeling : 
'T  is  soft  as  the  thrill  that  memory  throws 
Athwart  the  soul  in  the  hour  of  repose. 

Thou  Father  of  all  in  the  worlds  of  light, 

Fain  would  my  spirit  aspire  to  thee, 
And  through  the  screen  of  this  gentle  night 

Behold  the  dawn  of  eternity  ; 
For  this  the  path  which  thou  hast  given, 
The  only  path  to  the  bliss  of  heaven. 

ANONYMOUS. 


TO   A   NEWLY   OPENED   OYSTER 

WITH  feelings  strange  and  undefined  I  gaze  upon  thy  face, 
Thou  choice  and  juicy  specimen  of  an  ill-fated  race ! 
How  calmly,  yea,  how  meekly  thou  reclinest  in  thy  shell, 
Yet  what  thy  woes  and  sufferings  are  man  can  conjecture  well ! 
For  thou  wert  torn  from  friends  and  home,  and  all  thy  heart 

could  wish, 

Thou  hapless,  helpless  innocent !  mute,  persecuted  fish  ! 
Thou  wert  happy  in  thy  native  bed,  where  blithesome  billows 

play, 

Till  the  cruel  fisher  fished  thee  from  home,  sweet  home,  away. 
He  stowed  thee  in  his  cable,  and  he  rowed  thee  to  the  strand ; 
Thou  wert  bought  and  sold  and  opened,  and  placed  in  this  tight 

hand. 

I  know  that  while  I  moralize  thy  flavor  fades  away  ; 
I  know  thou  shouldst  be  ate  alive  before  thy  sweets  decay ; 
I  know  that  it  is  foolishness,  this  weak  delay  of  mine, 
And  epicures  may  laugh  at  it  as  sentimental  whine. 


16  THE  MARINER'S  DREAM. 

Well,  let  them  laugh,  I  still  will  drop  a  tear  o'er  thy  sad  fate, 

Thou  wretched  and  ill-fated  one,  thou  sad  disconsolate  ! 

O'er  thee  and  o'er  thy  kindred  hangs  an  all-consuming  doom, 

To  die  a  slow  and  lingering  death,  in  living  find  a  tomb. 

Like  the  Indian  from  the  forest,  like  the  roebuck  from  the  glen, 

Thy  race  is  dwindling  silently  before  the  arts  of  men ; 

Ye  are  passing  from  the  river,  from  the  sea-bank,  from  the  shore, 

And  the  haunts  that  lo.ng  have  known  ye  shall  know  ye  soon  no 

more. 

The  "  Blue  Point "  and  the  "  Shrewsbury  "  are  fading  fast  away, 
And  clamless  soon  will  be  our  streams,  and  oysterless  our  bay. 
Why  were  ye  made  so  racy,  rich,  and  luscious  to  the  taste? 
'T  is  this  has  stripped  your  thickest  banks,  and  made  your  beds 

a  waste. 

Your  virtues  are  made  sanctified  and  holy  traitors  to  ye, 
And  that  which  was  your  proudest  boast  has  served  but  to 

undo  ye. 

ANONYMOUS. 

Copied  iii  CHINA,  April  30,  1831. 


THE   MARINER'S  DREAM. 

IN  slumbers  of  midnight  the  sailor  boy  lay ; 

His  hammock  swung  loose  at  the  sport  of  the  wind ; 
But,  watch-worn  and  weary,  his  cares  flew  away, 

And  visions  of  happiness  danced  o'er  his  mind. 

He  dreamt  of  his  home,  of  his  dear  native  bowers, 
'And  pleasures  that  waited  on  life's  merry  rnorn ; 

While  memory  stood  sideways,  half  covered  wi,th  flowers, 
And  restored  every  rose,  but  secreted  its  thorn. 


THE   MARINER'S   DREAM.  17 

Then  Fancy  her  magical  pinions  spread  wide, 
And  bade  the  young  dreamer  in  ecstasy  rise  ; 

Now  far,  far  behind  him  the  green  waters  glide, 
And  the  cot  of  his  forefathers  blesses  his  eyes. 

The  jessamine  clambers  in  flowers  o'er  the  thatch, 

And  the  swallow  chirps  sweet  from  her  nest  in  the  wall ; 

All  trembling  with  transport,  he  raises  the  latch, 
And  the  voices  of  loved  ones  reply  to  his  call. 

A  father  bends  o'er  him  with  looks  of  delight ; 

His  cheek  is  impearled  with  a  mother's  warm  tear ; 
And  the  lips  of  the  boy  in  a  love-kiss  unite 

With  the  lips  of  the  maid  whom  his  bosom  holds  dear. 

The  heart  of  the  sleeper  beats  high  in  his  breast ; 

Joy  quickens  his  pulses,  his  hardships  seem  o'er ; 
And  a  murmur  of  happiness  steals  through  his  rest,  — 

"  0  God  !  thou  hast  blest  me,  —  I  ask  for  no  more." 

Ah !  whence  is  that  flame  which  now  bursts  on  his  eye  ? 

Ah !  what  is  that  sound  which  now  'larms  on  his  ear  ? 
'T  is  the  lightning's  red  gleam,  painting  hell  on  the  sky ; 

'T  is  the  crashing  of  thunders,  the  groan  of  the  sphere. 

He  springs  from  his  hammock,  he  flies  to  the  deck ; 

Amazement  confronts  him  with  images  dire ; 
Wild  winds  and  mad  waves  drive  the  vessel  a  wreck  ; 

The  masts  fly  in  splinters ;  the  shrouds  are  on  fire. 

Like  mountains  the  billows  tremendously  swell ; 

In  vain  the  lost  wretch  calls  on  mercy  to  save ; 
Unseen  hands  of  spirits  are  ringing  his  knell, 

And  the  death-angel  flaps  his  broad  wings  o'er  the  wave. 

2 


18  THOSE  EVENING  BELLS. 

0  sailor  boy,  woe  to  thy  dream  of  delight ! 

In  darkness  dissolves  the  gay  frostwork  of  bliss. 
Where  now  is  the  picture  that  fancy  touched  bright,  — 

Thy  parents'  fond  pressure,  and  love's  honeyed  kiss  ? 

O  sailor  boy,  sailor  boy,  never  again 

Shall  home,  love,  or  kindred  thy  wishes  repay ; 

Unblessed  and  unhonored,  down  deep  in  the  main, 
Full  many  a  fathom,  thy  frame  shall  decay. 

No  tomb  shall  e'er  plead  to  remembrance  for  thee, 
Or  redeem  form  or  frame  from  the  merciless  surge  ; 

But  the  white  foam  of  waves  shall  thy  winding-sheet  be, 
And  winds  in  the  midnight  of  winter  thy  dirge. 

On  a  bed  of  green  sea-flowers  thy  limbs  shall  be  laid, 
Around  thy  white  bones  the  red  coral  shall  grow ; 

Of  thy  fair  yellow  locks  threads  of  amber  be  made, 
And  every  part  suit  to  thy  mansion  below. 

Days,  months,  years,  and  ages  shall  circle  away, 
And  still  the  vast  waters  above  thee  shall  roll ; 

Earth  loses  thy  pattern  forever  and  aye,  — 
O  sailor  boy,  sailor  boy,  peace  to  thy  soul ! 

WILLIAM  DIMOND. 
Copied  in  CHINA,  May  4,  1831. 


THOSE  EVENING  BELLS. 

THOSE  evening  bells !  those  evening  bells 
How  many  a  tale  their  music  tells 
Of  youth,  and  home,  and  that  sweet  time 
When  last  I  heard  their  soothing  chime ! 


MISSIONARY  HYMN.  19 

Those  joyous  hours  are  passed  away ; 
And  many  a  heart  that  then  was  gay 
Within  the  tomb  now  darkly  dwells, 
And  hears  no  more  those  evening  bells. 

And  so  't  will  be  when  I  am  gone  — 
That  tuneful  peal  will  still  ring  on ; 
While  other  bards  shall  walk  these  dells, 
And  sing  your  praise,  sweet  evening  bells. 

MOORE. 
CHINA,  1831. 


MISSIONARY   HYMN. 

FKOM  Greenland's  icy  mountains, 

From  India's  coral  strand, 
Where  Afric's  sunny  fountains 

Roll  down  their  golden  sand  ; 
From  many  an  ancient  river, 

From  many  a  palmy  plain, 
They  call  us  to  deliver 

Their  land  from  error's  chain. 

What  though  the  spicy  breezes 

Blow  soft  o'er  Ceylon's  isle ; 
Though  every  prospect  pleases, 

And  only  man  is  vile ; 
In  vain  with  lavish  kindness 

The  gifts  of  God  are  strewn : 
The  heathen  in  his  blindness 

Bows  down  to  wood  and  stone. 


20  THE  MOONLIGHT  MARCH. 

Can  we,  whose  souls  are  lighted 

With  wisdom  from  on  high, — 
Can  we  to  men  benighted 

The  lamp  of  life  deny  ? 
Salvation,  oh,  salvation,  — 

The  joyful  sound  proclaim, 
Till  each  remotest  nation 

Has  learnt  Messiah's  name. 

Waft,  waft,  ye  winds,  His  story, 

And  you,  ye  waters,  roll, 
Till  like  a  sea  of  glory 

It  spreads  from  pole  to  pole  ; 
Till  o'er  our  ransomed  nature 

The  Lamb  for  sinners  slain, 
Redeemer,  King,  Creator, 

In  bliss  returns  to  reign. 

HEBER. 
Copied  :  June  14,  1831. 


THE   MOONLIGHT   MARCH. 

I  SEE  them  on  their  winding  way ; 
About  their  ranks  the  moonbeams  play  ; 
Their  lofty  deeds  and  daring  high 
Blend  with  the  notes  of  victory, 
And  waving  arms  and  banners  bright 
Are  glancing  in  the  mellow  light : 
They  're  lost  and  gone,  the  moon  is  past, 
The  wood's  dark  shade  is  o'er  them  cast ; 
And  fainter,  fainter,  fainter  still, 
The  march  is  rising  o'er  the  hilL 


PIBROCH   OF  DONUIL  DHU.  21 

Again,  again,  the  pealing  drum, 
The  clashing  horn ;  they  come,  they  come ! 
Through  rocky  pass,  o'er  wooded  steep, 
In  long  and  glittering  files  they  sweep ; 
And  nearer,  nearer,  yet  more  near, 
Their  softened  chorus  meets  the  ear. 
Forth,  forth,  and  meet  them  on  their  way ! 
The  trampling  hoofs  brook  no  delay ; 
With  thrilling  fife,  and  pealing  drum, 
And  clashing  horn,  they  come,  they  come ! 

HEBEB. 

Copied  :  June  15,  1831. 


PIBROCH   OF  DONUIL   DHU. 

PIBROCH  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Pibroch  of  Donuil, 
AVake  thy  wild  voice  anew, 

Summon  Clan-Conuil. 
Come  away,  come  away, 

Hark  to  the  summons  ! 
Come  in  your  war  array, 

Gentles  and  commons. 

Come  from  the  deep  glen  and 

From  mountain  so  rocky  ; 
The  war-pipe  and  pennon 

Are  at  Inverlochy. 
Come  every  hill-plaid,  and 

True  heart  that  wears  one ; 
Come  every  steel  blade,  and 

Strong  hand  that  bears  one. 


22  MAN'S  PILGRIMAGE. 

Leave  untended  the  herd, 

The  flock  without  shelter ; 
Leave  the  corpse  uninterred, 

The  bride  at  the  altar ; 
Leave  the  deer,  leave  the  steer, 

Leave  nets  and  barges  : 
Come  with  your  fighting  gear, 

Broadswords  and  targes. 

Come  as  the  winds  come  when 

forests  are  rended ; 
Come  as  the  waves  come  when 

Navies  are  stranded : 
Faster  come,  faster  come, 

Faster  and  faster, 
Chief,  vassal,  page  and  groom, 

Tenant  and  master. 

Fast  they  come,  fast  they  come ; 

See  how  they  gather ! 
Wide  waves  the  eagle  plume, 

Blended  with  heather. 
Cast  your  plaids,  draw  your  blades, 

Forward  each  man  set ! 
Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Knell  for  the  onset ! 

SCOTT. 

Copied  :  June  17,  1831.     The  children  and  grandchildren  will  remember  this 
in  the  nursery. 

MAN'S    PILGEIMAGE. 

MAN'S  is  a  weary  pilgrimage, 

As  through  this  world  he  wends ; 

In  every  age,  from  stage  tt>  stage, 
Still  discontent  attends. 


GREEN  GROW  THE  RASHES.  23 

With  weariness  he  casts  his  eye 

Upon  the  road  before, 
And  still  remembers  with  a  sigh 

"  The  days  that  are  no  more." 

SOCTHEY. 

Copied  in  CHINA,  Sunday,  July  3,  1831.     "Just  one  year  since  I  drove  Mrs.  F. 
and  the  girls  into  Boston  to  see  the  barque  'Lintin.1  " 


GREEN   GROW  THE   RASHES. 

A    FRAGMENT. 

THERE  's  nought  but  care  on  ev'ry  han', 
In  ev'ry  hour  that  passes,  O  ; 

What  signifies  the  life  o'  man, 
An'  't  were  na  for  the  lasses,  0  ? 

CHORUS. 
Green  grow  the  rashes,  O  ; 

Green  grow  the  rashes,  O  ; 
The  sweetest  hours  that  e'er  I  spent, 

Were  spent  among  the  lasses,  O  ! 

The  warly  race  may  riches  chase, 
An'  riches  still  may  fly  them,  0  ; 

An'  though  at  last  they  catch  them  fast, 
Their  hearts  can  ne'er  enjoy  them,  O. 
Green  grow,  &c. 

But  gie  me  a  canny  hour  at  e'en, 
My  arms  about  my  dearie,  O ; 

An'  warly  cares  an'  warly  men 
May  a'  gae  tapsalteerie,  O. 
Green  grow,  &c. 


24  SONG. 

For  you  sae  douce,  ye  sneer  at  this, 
Ye  're  nought  but  senseless  asses,  0 ; 

The  wisest  man  the  warl'  e'er  saw, 

He  dearly  lov'd  the  lasses,  0. 

Green  grow,  &c. 

Auld  Nature  swears,  the  lovely  dears 

Her  noblest  work  she  classes,  0  ; 
Her  'prentice  han'  she  tried  on  man, 
An'  then  she  made  the  lasses,  0. 
Green  grow,  &c. 

BURNS. 


SONG. 

WHEN  Time,  who  steals  our  years  away, 
Shall  steal  our  pleasures  too, 

The  memory  of  the  past  will  stay, 
And  half  our  joys  renew. 

Then,  Chloe,  when  thy  beauty's  flower 

Shall  feel  the  wintry  air, 
Remembrance  will  recall  the  hour 

AY  hen  thou  alone  wert  fair ! 

Then  talk  no  more  of  future  gloom  : 

Our  joys  shall  always  last ; 
For  hope  shall  brighten  days  to  come, 

And  memory  gild  the  past ! 


MOORE. 


THE  RECALL.  25 

\ 

KNOW   YE   THE   LAND? 

A    PARODY. 

KNOW  ye  the  land  where  the  bamboo  and  queue  are, 
The  emblems  of  deeds  that  are  done  in  the  China, 
"Where  priestly  fond  writers  the  primest  of  swells  are, 
And  nothing  in  nature  or  man  is  sublime  ? 
Where  the  flowers  have  no  smell,  no  flavor  the  fruit, 
And  't  is  stupid  to  talk,  and  there 's  nothing  to  shoot ; 
Where  the  earth  is  burnt  mud  and  the  sky  is  all  blaze, 
Where  the  dew  is  death  fog  and  the  air  a  red  blaze, 
And  the  beautiful  blue  of  the  exquisite  land 
Is  a  compound  of  blue  and  brick-dust  and  sand  ? 
'T  is  the  land  of  the  East,  't  is  the  region  of  curry, 
That  slowly  we  come  to  and  leave  in  a  hurry : 
Know  ye  the  land  ?     My  good  friend,  if  you  do, 
By  the  Lord  I  don't  envy  you  :  I  know  it  too  ! 

ANONYMOUS. 

THE   EECALL. 

O'ER  the  far  blue  mountain,  o'er  the  white  sea-foam, 
Come,  thou  long-parted  one,  back  to  thy  home  : 
When  the  bright  fire  shineth,  sad  looks  thy  place ; 
While  the  true  heart  pineth,  missing  thy  face. 

Music  is  sorrowful  since  thou  art  gone, 
Sisters  are  mourning  thee ;  come  to  thine  own. 
Hark  !  the  home  voices  call  back  to  thy  rest ; 
Come  to  thy  father's  hall,  thy  mother's  breast. 

MRS.  HEMAXS. 
Copied  :  Oct.  23,  1831. 


26  IN  VAIN,   ALAS!  IN  VAIN. 


AWAY,  AWAY  WE   BOUND   O'ER   THE  DEEP. 

AWAY,  away  we  bound  o'er  the  deep ; 
Lightly,  brightly  our  merry  hearts  leap ; 
Homeward  we  sail  to  the  land  of  our  love, 
The  starlight  beacon  shining  above. 
Softly,  sweetly  the  murmurs  of  song 
Pour  on  the  ear  as  we  hasten  along, 
Gently  breathed  from  the  mariner's  lips, 
As  the  oar  in  the  waveless  mirror  he  dips. 

Swiftly  we  glide,  and,  oh,  as  we  near 
The  haven,  the  home  of  those  we  love  dear, 
We  think  not  of  woe,  we  dream  not  of  ill, 
For  our  star  all  lovely  shines  on  us  still. 
Away,  then,  with  hope  we  dash  o'er  the  deep ; 
Lightly,  brightly  our  merry  hearts  leap ; 
Homeward  we  sail  to  the  land  of  our  love, 
By  the  starlight  beacon  shining  above. 

ANONYMOUS. 
MRS.  M.  OLIVIA  LONG'S  song. 


IN   VAIN,  ALAS!   IN  VAIN. 

IN  vain,  alas  !  in  vain,  ye  gallant  few, 
From  rank  to  rank  your  volleyed  thunder  flew. 
Oh,  bloodiest  picture  on  the  book  of  Time ! 
Saxmatia  fell,  unwept,  without  a  crime  ; 
Found  not  a  generous  friend,  a  pitying  foe, 
Strength  in  her  arms,  nor  mercy  in  her  woe  ! 


MY  BOAT  IS   ON   THE   SHORE.  27 

Dropped  from  her  nerveless  ^rm  the  shattered  spear, 
Closed  her  bright  eye  and  curbed  her  high  career : 
Hope  for  a  season  bade  the  world  farewell, 
And  Freedom  shrieked  as  Kosciusko  fell. 

CAMPBELL,  Pleasures  of  Hope. 

Copied  :  March  7,  1832.     A  report  of  the  surrender  of  Warsaw  (via  Manilla). 


-    MY   BOAT   IS  ON   THE   SHORE. 

MY  boat  is  on  the  shore, 

And  my  bark  is  on  the  sea ; 
But  before  I  go,  Tom  Moore, 

Here  's  a  double  health  to  thee. 

Here 's  a  sigh  to  those  who  love  me, 
And  a  srnile  to  those  who  hate ; 

And,  whatever  sky 's  above  me, 
Here 's  a  heart  for  every  fate. 

Though  the  ocean  roar  around  me, 

Yet  it  still  shall  bear  me  on ; 
Though  a  desert  should  surround  me, 

It  hath  springs  that  may  be  won. 

Were  't  the  last  drop  in  the  well, 

As  1  gasped  upon  the  brink, 
Ere  my  fainting  spirits  fell, 

'T  is  to  thee  that  I  would  drink. 

With  that  water,  as  this  wine, 

The  libation  I  would  pour 
Should  be  —  Peace  with  thine  and  mine, 

And  a  health  to  thee,  Tom  Moore. 

BYRON. 
Copied  in  CHINA. 


28  TO   THOMAS  MOORE. 


THE   HELEN   OF   CANOVA. 

IN  this  beloved  marble  view, 

Beyond  the  works  and  thoughts  of  man, 
What  Nature  could,  but  would  not  do, 

And  Beauty  and  Canova  can. 

Beyond  imagination's  power, 
Beyond  the  Bard's  defeated  art, 

With  immortality  her  dower, 
Behold  the  Helen  of  the  Heart. 

BYRON. 


TO   THOMAS   MOORE. 

WHAT  are  you  doing  now, 

O  Thomas  Moore ! 
What  are  you  doing  now, 

O  Thomas  Moore ! 
Lying  or  swearing  now, 

lUiyming  or  wooing  now, 
Billing  or  cooing  now,  — 

Which,  Thomas  Moore  ? 

But  the  Carnival 's  coming  now, 

0  Thomas  Moore ! 
The  Carnival 's  coming  now, 

0  Thomas  Moore  ! 
Masking  and  humming  now, 

Fifing  and  drumming  now, 
Guitaring  and  strumming  now, 

O  Thomas  Moore  ! 

BYRON. 
Copied  in  CHINA. 


THE  SHIP  IS  READY.  29 


SHIP   IS   KEADY. 


FARE  thee  well  !  the  ship  is  ready, 
And  the  breeze  is  fresh  and  steady  ; 
Hands  are  fast  the  anchor  weighing, 
High  in  air  the  streamers  playing. 
Spread  the  sails  ;  the  waves  are  swelling 
Proudly  round  thy  buoyant  dwelling  : 
Fare  thee  well  !  and  when  at  sea, 
Think  of  those  who  sigh  for  thee. 

When  from  land  and  home  receding, 
And  from  hearts  that  ache  to  bleeding, 
Think  of  those  behind  that  love  thee, 
While  the  sun  is  bright  above  thee  ; 
Then,  as  down  the  ocean  glancing, 
With  the  waves  his  rays  are  dancing, 
Think  how  long  the  night  will  be 
To  eyes  that  weep  for  thee. 

When  the  lonely  night-watch  keeping, 
All  below  thee  still  and  sleeping, 
As  the  needle  points  the  quarter, 
On  the  wide  and  trackless  water, 
Let  thy  vigils  ever  find  thee 
Mindful  of  the  friends  behind  thee  ; 
Let  thy  bosom's  magnet  be 
Turned  to  those  who  wake  for  thee. 

When  with  slow  and  gentle  motion 
Heaves  the  bosom  of  the  ocean, 
While  in  peace  thy  bark  is  riding, 
And  the  silver  moon  is  gliding 


30  THE  LAKE   OF   WINDERMERE. 

On  the  sky  with  tranquil  splendor, 
When  the  shining  hosts  attend  her, 
Let  the  brightest  vision  be, 
Country,  home,  and  friends  to  thee. 

When  the  tempest  hovers  o'er  thee, 
Danger,  death,  and  wreck  before  thee, 
WThile  the  sword  of  fire  is  gleaming, 
Wild  the  winds,  the  torrents  streaming, 
Then,  a  pious  suppliant  bending, 
Let  thy  thoughts  ascending 
Reach  the  mercy- seat  to  be 
Met  by  prayers  that  rise  for  thee. 

Miss  H.  F.  GOULD. 
Copied  off  CAPE  BANK,  Sunday,  March  7,  1833. 


THE   LAKE   OF  WINDERMERE. 

I  WOULD  I  had  a  charmed  boat 

•  To  sail  that  lovely  lake, 
Nor  should  another  prow  but  mine 

Its  silver  silence  wake. 
No  one  should  cleave  its  sunny  tide, 

But  I  would  float  along 
As  if  the  breath  that  filled  my  sail 

Was  but  a  murmured  song. 

Then  I  would  think  all  pleasant  thoughts, 

Live  early  youth  anew, 
When  hope  took  tunes  of  prophecy, 

And  tones  of  music  too, 


GENEVIEVE.  31 

And  colored  life  with  its  own  hues, 
The  heart's  true  "  Claude  Lorraine," 

The  rich,  the  warm,  the  beautiful,  — 
I  'd  live  them  once  again. 

Kind  faces  flit  before  my  eyes, 

Sweet  voices  fill  my  ear ; 
And  friends  I  long  have  ceased  to  love, 

1 11  still  think  loved  and  here. 
With  such  fair  phantasies  to  fill, 

Sweet  lake,  thy  summer  air, 
If  thy  banks  were  not  paradise, 

Yet  I  would  dream  they  were.  ' 

Miss  L.  E.  LANDON. 

M.  P.  F.     Copied  off  ISLE  OF  FRANCE,   Sunday,  March  24,   1833,   on  b«ard 
ship  "  Alert." 


GENEVIEVE. 

ALL  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stirs  this  mortal  frame, 
All  are  but  ministers  of  Love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

Oft  in  my  waking  dreams  do  I 
Live  o'er  again  that  happy  hour, 
When  midway  on  the  mount  I  lay 
Beside  the  ruined  tower. 

The  moonshine,  stealing  o'er  the  scene. 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve  ; 
And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy, 
My  own  dear  Genevieve ! 


32  GENEVIEVE. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace ; 
For  well  she  knew  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  Knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand ; 
And  that  for  ten  long  years  he  wooed 
The  Lady  of  the  Land. 

I  told  her  how  he  pined  ;  and  ah  ! 
The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 
With  which  I  sang  another's  love, 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listened  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace ; 
And  she  forgave  me  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face. 


His  dying  words  —  but  when  I  reached 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 
My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturbed  her  soul  with  pity. 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 
Had  thrilled  my  guileless  Genevieve  : 
The  music  and  the  doleful  tale, 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve  ; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope, 
An  undistinguishable  throng, 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 
Subdued  and  cherished  long. 


ON  A   MISER.  33 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight, 
She  blushed  with  love  and  virgin  shame ; 
And  like  the  murmur  of  a  dream, 
I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

Her  bosom  heaved,  —  she  stept  aside, 
As  conscious  of  my  look  sh'e  stept,  — 
Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye, 
She  fled  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half  enclosed  me  with  her  arms, 
She  pressed  me  with  a  meek  embrace ; 
And,  bending  back  her  head,  looked  up 
And  gazed  upon  my  face. 

'T  was  partly  love,  and  partly  fear, 
And  partly  't  was  a  bashful  art 
That  I  might  rather  feel  than  see 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calmed  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm, 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride  ; 
And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 

My  bright  and  beauteous  bride. 

COLERIDGE. 


ON  A  MISER. 

IRON  was  his  chest, 

Iron  his  door : 
His  hand  was  iron; 

His  heart  was  more. 

ANONYMOUS. 
3 


34  DRINKING-SONG. 


DKINKING-SONG. 

BANISH  sorrow,  grief  is  folly  ; 

Thought,  unbend  thy  wrinkled  brow  ; 
Hence,  dull  care  and  melancholy  ; 

Joy  and  mirth  await  us  now. 
Bacchus  opens  all  his  treasures, 

Comus  gives  us  wit  and  song; 
Follow,  follow,  follow  pleasure ; 

Let  us  join  the  jovial  throng. 

Life  is  short,  't  is  but  a  season, 

Time  is  ever  on  the  wing; 
Then  let 's  the  present  moment  seize  on, 

Who  knows  what  the  next  may  bring  ? 
All  our  time  by  mirth  we  measure, 

All  dull  cares  we  may  despise ; 
Follow,  follow,  follow  pleasure, 

To  be  merry,  to  be  wise. 

Wherefore  then  should  we  perplex  us, 

Why  should  we  not  merry  be, 
Since  in  life  there  's  nought  to  vex  us, 

Drinking  sets  our  cares  all  free  ? 
Let's  have  drinking  without  measure, 

Let 's  have  time,  while  time  we  have ; 
Follow,  follow,  follow  pleasure, 

There 's  no  drinking  in  the  grave. 

When  Death  comes  in,  we  '11  say,  "  Good  fellow, 
Come  and  sit  you  down  by  me ; 


THE  SAILOR'S   CONSOLATION.  35 

Drink  with  me  until  you  're  mellow, 

Then  like  us  you  shall  be  free. 
Sit  down,  Death,  —  we  must  have  leisure, 

Drinking  can't  be  hurried  so  ; 
Follow,  follow,  follow  pleasure ; 
One  more  bumper,  then  we  '11  go." 

ANONYMOUS. 
Copied :  March  24,  1833.    Sung  by  Dr.  JOHN  JENNISON  on  the  barque  "  Ltntin." 


THE   SAILOR'S   CONSOLATION. 

ONE  night  came  on  a  hurricane, 

The  sea  was  mountains  rolling, 
When  Barney  Buntline  turned  his  quid, 

And  said  to  Billy  Bowling  : 
"  A  strong  nor' wester 's  blowing,  Bill ; 

Hark  !  don't  ye  hear  it  roar  now  ? 
Lord  help  'em,  how  I  pities  them 

Unhappy  folks  on  shore  now  ! 

"  Foolhardy  chaps  who  live  in  towns, 

What  danger  they  are  all  in, 
And  now  lie  quaking  in  their  beds, 

For  fear  the  roof  shall  fall  in  ! 
Poor  creatures !  how  they  envies  us, 

And  wishes,  I  Ve  a  notion, 
For  our  good  luck,  in  such  a  storm, 

To  be  upon  the  ocean  ! 

"  And  as  for  them  who  're  out  all  day 
On  business  from  their  houses, 

And  late  at  night  are  coming  home, 
To  cheer  their  babes  and  spouses, 


36  THE  FIVE  DREAMS. 

While  you  and  I,  Bill,  on  the  deck 

Are  comfortably  lying, 
My  eyes  !  what  tiles  and  chimney-pots 

About  their  heads  are  flying ! 

"And  very  often  have  we  heard 

How  men  are  killed  and  undone, 
By  overturns  of  carriages, 

By  thieves  and  fires  in  London. 
We  know  what  risks  all  landsmen  run, 

From  noblemen  to  tailors ; 
Then,  Bill,  let  us  thank  Providence 

That  you  and  I  are  sailors." 

WILLIAM  PITT. 
A  very  old  favorite. 

THE  FIVE  DREAMS 

ON  A  PIECE  OF  WEDDING-CAKE  IN  A  SEALED  PAPER,  WITH  FIVE 
LADIES'  NAMES  THERE  WRITTEN. 

FIRST. 

THE  first  was  a  vision  with  flaxen  hair, 

And  such  an  ethereal  eye  and  smile, 
As  told  of  the  genius  that  harbored  there, 

And  the  art  that  in  ambush  lay  the  while ; 
And  I  knelt  and  I  offered  —  't  was  much  for  me  — 

A  heart ;  but  she  laughed  at  the  gift,  and  said 
'T  was  kindly  meant,  but  indeed  't  would  be 

Scarce  worth  her  accepting  without  a  head. 

SECOND. 
And  the  next  was  the  very  nymph  of  dreams, 

Transparently,  beautifully  pale, 
Like  the  moon  when  she  sheds  her  mildest  beams 

Through  a  summer  cloud's  faintest,  fleeciest  veil ; 


THE  FIVE  DREAMS.  37 

And  I  knelt  again,  and  she  left  me  kneeling, 
And  with  queen-like  steps  and  averted  eyes 

She  was  gone,  ere  the  power  of  devoted  feeling 
Could  shape  into  words  what  it  uttered  in  sighs. 

THIKD. 

And  the  third  was  a  perfect  Hebe,  glowing 

With  all  that  life's  loveliest  morning  brings, 
And  radiant  with  happy  spirits  flowing 

From  living  and  pure  and  sheltered  springs. 
And  I  knelt  with  a  sigh  that  she  would  not  hear ; 

But  she  heard  my  petition  and  answered  no. 
And  she  laughed  at  my  sorrow  and  starting  tear, 

And  she  vanished  before  it  had  time  to  flow. 

FOURTH. 

The  fourth  !  oh,  I  know  that  large,  dark  eye, 

Those  curls  of  the  glossiest,  raven  jet ; 
I  have  worshipped  their  beauty  in  hours  gone  by, 

And  my  spirit  remembers  its  slavery  yet. 
'Shall  the  secret  thoughts  of  my  heart  at  length 

Not  find  to  the  lips  their  timid  way  ? 
Too  late  and  in  vain  !  their  collected  strength 

Trembles  and  dies  in  a  faint  essay. 

FIFTH. 

But  the  last  of  the  train  is  passing  now,  — 

How  she  sways  majestically  by  ! 
There  's  moonlight  upon  her  lofty  brow, 

And  romance  in  her  visionary  eye. 
Her  thoughts  in  a  far-away  country  roam, 

All  peopled  with  fancies  divinely  fair, 
And  thither  her  spirit  is  floating  home, . 

To  be  welcomed,  I  ween,  the  fairest  fair. 

ANONYMOUS,  New  York  American. 


38  HAIL,    CHARMING  POWER! 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  BIRCH. 

BY   A   SCHOOLMASTER. 

LET  others  laud  the  storm-defying  oak, 

Proof  'gainst  the  whirlwind  and  the  lightning  stroke, 

The  graceful  willow  or  the  aspen  tree, 

But  birch,  the  useful  stinging  birch,  for  me  ! 

A.  E.  DURIVAGE. 
Copied:  April  14,  1833. 


STEOKE   A   NETTLE. 

TENDER-HANDED  stroke  a  nettle, 
And  it  stings  you  for  your  pains  ; 

Grasp  it  like  a  man  of  mettle, 
And  it  soft  as  silk  remains. 

So  it  is  with  common  natures,  — 

Use  them  kindly,  they  rebel ; 
But  be  rough  as  nutmeg  graters, 

And  the  rogues  obey  you  well. 

ANONYMOUS. 


HAIL,   CHARMING  POWER! 

HAIL,  charming  power  of  self-opinion  ! 
For  none  be  slaves  in  thy  dominion  : 
Secure  in  thee,  the  mind  's  at  ease  ; 
The  vain  have  only  'one  to  please. 

British  Martial. 


ODE   TO  NAPOLEON  BONAPARTE.  39 


ODE   TO   NAPOLEON   BONAPARTE. 

'T  is  done,  —  but  yesterday  a  king, 
And  arm'd  with  kings  to  strive  ; 
And  now  thou  art  a  nameless  thing,  — 

So  abject,  yet  alive. 
Is  this  the  man  of  thousand  thrones, 
Who  strewed  our  earth  with  hostile  bones, 

And  can  he  thus  survive  ? 
Since  he,  miscalled  the  morning  star, 
Nor  man  nor  fiend  hath  fallen  so  far. 

Thanks  for  that  lesson,  —  it  will  teach 

To  after-warriors  more 
Than  high  philosophy  can  preach, 

And  vainly  preached  before. 
That  spell  upon  the  minds  of  men 
Breaks  never  to  unite  again, 

That  led  them  to  adore 
Those  Pagod  things  of  sabre  sway, 
With  fronts  of  brass,  and  feet  of  clay. 

The  Desolator  desolate ! 

The  Victor  overthrown ! 
The  Arbiter  of  others'  fate 

A  Suppliant  for  his  own  ! 
Is  it  some  yet  imperial  hope 
That  with  such  change  can  calmly  cope  ? 

Or  dread  of  death  alone  ? 
To  die  a  prince,  or  live  a  slave,  — 
The  choice  is  most  ignobly  brave. 


40       RECEIPT  TO  MAKE  A  MAN  OF  CONSEQUENCE. 

He  who  of  old  would  rend  the  oak, 

Dreamed  not  of  the  rebound  ; 
Chained  by  the  trunk  he  vainly  broke,  — 

Alone,  —  how  looked  he  round  ? 
Thou,  in  the  sternness  of  thy  strength, 
An  equal  deed  hast  done  at  length, 

And  darker  fate  hast  found  : 
He  fell,  the  forest  prowlers'  prey  ; 
But  thou  must  eat  thy  heart  away ! 

But  thou  —  from  thy  reluctant  hand 

The  thunderbolt  is  wrung,  — 
Too  late  thou  leav'st  the  high  command 

To  which  thy  weakness  clung. 
All  evil  spirit  as  thou  art, 
It  is  enough  to  grieve  the  heart 

To  see  thine  own  unstrung; 
To  think  that  God's  fair  world  hath  been 
The  footstool  of  a  thing  so  mean. 

BYRON. 
Copied  :  Sunday,  April  28,  1833;  passing  ST.  HELEXA. 


EECEIPT  TO  MAKE  A  MAN   OF  CONSEQUENCE. 

A  BROW  austere,  a  circumspective  eye, 
A  frequent  shrug  of  the  "  os  humeri," 
A  nod  significant,  a  stately  gait, 
A  blustering  manner  and  a  tone  of  weight, 
A  smile  sarcastic,  an  expressive  stare,  — 
Adopt  all  these  as  time  and  place  will  bear, 
Then  rest  assured  that  those  of  little  sense 
Will  deem  you  sure  a  man  of  consequence. 

British  Martial. 


NORNA'S  PROPHECIES.  41 


NOBNA'S   PROPHECIES. 

FOE   BEENDA. 

UNTOUCHED  by  love,  the  maiden's  breast 
Is  like  the  snow  on  Eona's  crest, 
High  seated  in  the  middle  sky, 
In  bright  and  barren  purity  ; 
But  by  the  sunbeam  gently  kissed, 
Scarce  by  the  gazing  eye  't  is  missed, 
Ere  down  the  lonely  valley  stealing, 
Fresh  grass  and  growth  its  course  revealing, 
It  cheers  the  flo'ck,  revives  the  flower, 
And  decks  some  happy  shepherd's  bower. 

FOE   MINNA. 

Untouched  by  love,  the  maiden's  breast 
Is  like  the  snow  on  Eona's  crest : 
So  pure,  so  free  from  earthly  dye, 
It  seems,  whilst  leaning  on  the  sky, 
Part  of  the  heaven  to  which  't  is  nigh  ; 
But  passion,  like  the  wild  March  rain, 
May  soil  the  wreath  with  many  a  stain. 
We  gaze,  —  the  lovely  vision  's  gone  ; 
A  torrent  fills  the  bed  of  stone, 
That,  hurrying  to  destruction's  shock, 
Leaps  headlong  from  the  lofty  rock. 

SCOTT,  The  Pirate. 


TO 


LIE  on,  and  my  revenge  shall  be 
To  speak  the  very  truth  of  thee. 

British  Martial. 


42  CUMNOR  HALL. 


CUMNOR  HALL. 

THE  dews  of  summer  night  did  fall ; 

The  moon,  sweet  regent  of  the  sky, 
Silvered  the  walls  of  Cumnor  Hall, 

And  many  an  oak  that  grew  thereby. 

Now  nought  was  heard  beneath  the  skies, 
The  sounds  of  busy  life  were  still, 

Save  an  unhappy  lady's  sighs, 
That  issued  from  that  lonely  pile. 

"  Leicester,"  she  cried,  "  is  this  thy  love 
That  thou  so  oft  hast  sworn  to  me,  — 

To  leave  me  in  this  lonely  grove, 
Immured  in  shameful  privity  ? 

"  No  more  thou  com'st  with  lover's  speed, 
Thy  once  beloved  bride  to  see  ; 

But  be  she  alive  or  be  she  dead, 

I  fear,  stern  Earl,  's  the  same  to  thee. 

"  Not  so  the  usage  I  received 

When  happy  in  my  father's  hall ; 

No  faithless  husband  then  me  grieved, 
No  chilling  fears  did  me  appall. 


"  Then,  Leicester,  why,  again  I  plead 
(The  injured  surely  may  repine), 

Why  didst  thou  wed  a  country  maid, 

When  some  fair  princess  might  be  thine  ? 


CUMNOR  HALL.  43 

"  Why  didst  thou  praise  my  humble  charms, 

And,  oh,  then  leave  them  to  decay  ? 
Why  didst  thou  win  me  to  thy  arms, 

Then  leave  to  mourn  the  livelong  day  ? 

"  The  village  maidens  of  the  plain 

Salute  me  lowly  as  they  go ; 
Envious  they  mark  my  silken  train, 

Nor  think  a  Countess  can  have  woe. 

"  The  simple  nymphs,  they  little  know 
How  far  more  happy  's  their  estate,  — 

To  smile  for  joy  than  sigh  for  woe, 
To  be  content  than  to  be  great. 


"  My  spirits  flag,  my  hopes  decay ; 

Still  that  dread  death-bell  smites  my  ear, 
And  many  a  boding  seems  to  say, 

'  Countess,  prepare,  thy  end  is  near.' " 

Thus,  sore  and  sad,  that  lady  grieved, 
In  Cumuor  Hall,  so  lone  and  drear ; 

And  many  a  heartfelt  sigh  she  heaved, 
And  let  fall  many  a  bitter  tear. 

And  ere  the  dawn  of  day  appeared, 
In  Cumnor  Hall,  so  lone  and  drear, 

Full  many  a  piercing  scream  was  heard, 
And  many  a  cry  of  mortal  fear. 

The  death-bell  thrice  was  heard  to  ring, 
An  aerial  voice  was  heard  to  call, 

And  thrice  the  raven  flapped  its  wings 
Around  the  towers  of  Cumnor  HalL 


44  CUMNOR   HALL. 

The  mastiff  howled  at  village  door, 
The  oaks  were  shattered  on  the  green; 

Woe  was  the  hour,  for  nevermore 
That  hapless  Countess  e'er  was  seen. 

And  in  that  manor  now  no  more 
Is  cheerful  feast  and  sprightly  ball ; 

For  ever  since  that  dreary  hour 
Have  spirits  haunted  Cumnor  Hall. 

The  village  maids,  with  fearful  glance, 
Avoid  the  ancient  moss-grown  wall ; 

Nor  ever  lead  the  merry  dance 

Among  the  groves  of  Cumnor  Hall. 

Full  many  a  traveller  oft  hath  sighed, 
And  pensive  wept  the  Countess'  fall, 
As  wandering  onward  they  've  espied 
The  haunted  towers  of  Cumnor  Hall. 

WILLIAM  JULIUS  MICKLE. 
Copied  :  MILTON  HILL,  Oct.  31,  1833. 


ON  A  STONE  THROWN  THAT  MISSED  A  THICK  HEAD. 

TALK  no  more  of  the  lucky  escape  of  the  head 

From  a  flint  so  unluckily  thrown ; 
I  think,  very  different  from  thousands  indeed, 

'T  was  a  lucky  escape  for  the  stone. 

ANONYMOUS. 


ANNE  HATHAWAY.  45 


ANNE   HATHAWAY. 

WOULD  ye  be  taught,  ye  feathered  throng, 
With  love's  sweet  notes  to  grace  your  song, 
To  pierce  the  heart  with  thrilling  lay, 
Listen  to  mine  Anne  Hathaway. 
She  hath  a  way  to  sing  so  clear, 
Phosbus  might  wondering  stop  to  hear  ; 
To  melt  the  sad,  make  blithe  the  gay, 
And  nature  charm,  Anne  hath  a  way. 
She  hath  a  way,  Anne  Hathaway ; 
To  breathe  delight,  Anne  hath  a  way. 

When  envy's  breath  and  rancor's  tooth 

Bo  soil  and  bite  fair  worth  and  truth, 

And  merit  to  distress  betray, 

To  soothe  the  heart,  Anne  hath  a  way. 

She  hath  a  way  to  chase  despair, 

To  heal  all  grief,  to  cure  all  care, 

Turn  foulest  night  to  fairest  day, 

Thou  knowest,  fond  heart,  Anne  hath  a  way. 

She  hath  a  way,  Anne  Hathaway  ; 

To  make  grief  bliss,  Anne  hath  a  way. 

Talk  not  of  gems,  the  Orient  list, 
The  diamond,  topaz,  amethyst, 
The  emerald  mild,  the  ruby  gay  — 
Talk  of  my  gem,  Anne  Hathaway. 
She  hath  a  way,  with  her  bright  eye, 
Their  various  lustre  to  defy  ; 
The  jewel  she,  and  the  foil  they, 
So  sweet  to  look  Anne  hath  a  way. 


46  JEAN  IE  MORRISON. 

She  hath  a  way,  Anne  Hathaway ; 

To  shame  bright  gems,  Anne  hath  a  way. 

But  were  it  to  my  fancy  given 

To  rate  her  charms,  I  'd  call  them  heaven ; 

For  though  a  mortal  made  of  clay, 

Angels  must  love  Anne  Hathaway. 

She  hath  a  way  so  to  control, 

To  rapture,  the  imprisoned  soul, 

And  sweetest  heaven  on  earth  display, 

That  to  be  heaven  Anne  hath  a  way. 

She  hath  a  way,  Anne  Hathaway  ; 

To  be  heaven's  self,  Anne  hath  a  way. 

Attributed  to  SHAKSPEARE. 
Copied  :  MILTON  HILL,  Oct.  31,  1833. 


JEANIE   MORRISON. 

I  'VE  wandered  east,  I  Ve  wandered  west, 

Through  inony  a  weary  way  ; 
But  never,  never  can  forget 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day. 
The  fire  that 's  blawn  on  Beltane  e'en 

May  weel  be  black  gin  Yule ;  i 

But  blacker  fa'  awaits  the  heart 

Where  first  fond  luve  grows  cule. 

0  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 

The  thochts  o'  bygane  years 
Still  fling  their  shadows  ower  my  path, 

And  blind  my  een  wi'  tears ; 


JEAN  IE  MORRISON.  47 

They  blind  my  een  wi'  saut,  saut  tears, 

And  sair  and  sick  I  pine, 
As  memory  idly  summons  up 

The  blithe  blinks  o'  langsyne. 

T  was  then  we  luvit  ilk  ither  weel, 

'T  was  then  we  twa  did  part ; 
Sweet  time,  sad  time  !  twa  bairns  at  scule, 

Twa  bairns,  and  but  ae  heart ! 
'T  was  then  we  sat  on  ae  laigh  bink, 

To  leir  ilk  ither  lear ; 
And  tones  and  looks  and  smiles  were  shed, 

Remembered  evermair. 

I  wonder,  Jeanie,  aften  yet, 

When  sitting  on  that  bink, 
Cheek  touchin'  cheek,  loof  locked  in  loof, 

What  our  wee  heads  could  think. 
When  baith  bent  doun  ower  ae  braid  page, 

Wi'  ae  buik  on  our  knee, 
Thy  lips  were  on  thy  lesson,  but 

My  lesson  was  in  thee. 

The  throssil  whusslit  in  the  wood, 

The  burn  sang  to  the  trees, 
And  we,  with  nature's  heart  in  tune, 

Concerted  harmonies ; 
And  on  the  knowe  abune  the  burn, 

For  hours  thegither  sat 
In  the  silentness  o'  joy,  till  baith 

Wi'  very  gladness  grat. 

Ay,  ay,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 
Tears  trickled  doun  your  cheek, 


48  JEAN  IE  MORRISON. 

Like  dew-beads  on  a  rose,  yet  nane 

Had  ony  power  to  speak. 
That  was  a  time,  a  blessed  time, 

When  hearts  were  fresh  and  young, 
When  freely  gushed  all  feelings  forth, 

Unsyllabled,  unsung. 

I  've  wandered  east,  I  Ve  wandered  west, 

I  've  borne  a  weary  lot ; 
But  in  my  wanderings,  far  or  near, 

Ye  never  were  forgot. 
The  fount  that  first  burst  frae  this  heart, 

Still  travels  on  its  way ; 
And  channels  deeper,  as  it  rins, 

The  luve  o'  life's  young  day. 

0  dear,  dear  Jeanie  Morrison, 
Since  we  were  sindered  young, 

1  've  never  seen  your  face,  nor  heard 

The  music  o'  your  tongue  ; 
,  But  I  could  hug  all  wretchedness, 

And  happy  could  I  dee, 
Did  I  but  ken  your  heart  still  dreamed 
0'  bygane  days  and  me.     . 

WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL. 
Copied :  MILTON  HILL,  Oct.  31,  1833. 


WONDERS   CEASE. 

THE  prophet  Balaam  was  in  wonder  lost 

To  have  his  ass  speak  ;  —  asses  now  talk  most. 

ANONYMOUS. 


DAY  BREAKS   ON   THE  MOUNTAIN.  49 


DAY   BEEAKS   ON   THE  MOUNTAIN. 

DAY  breaks  on  the  mountain, 

Light  bursts  on  the  storm, 
The  sun  from  the  shower 

Glints  silent  and  warm. 
But  dark  is  the  hour 

Of  grief  on  my  soul ; 
There 's  no  morn  to  awake  it, 

No  beam  to  console. 

The  hawk  to  his  corrie, 
The  dove  to  her  nest, 
The  wolf  to  the  greenwood, 
.    The  fox  to  his  rest. 
But  woe  and  morrow 

Are  wakeful  to  me; 
There's  no  rest  for  my  sorrow, 

No  sleep  for  my  ee. 

O  Lily  of  England, 

O  lady,  my  love, 
How  fair  is  the  sunbeam, 

Thy  bower  above ! 
And  bright  be  thy  blossom, 

And  reckless  thy  glee, 
And  crossed  not  thy  bosom 

With  sorrow  for  me. 

We  have  met  in  delight, 

We  have  dreamed  ne'er  to  sever, 

4 


50  CLEVELAND'S  SONG  .TO  MINNA. 

We  have  loved  in  despair, 

We  have  parted  forever. 
But  yet  there's  a  rest 

To  the  mournful  is  given; 
We  shall  sleep  on  earth's  breast, 

And  awaken  in  heaven. 

ANONYMOUS,  Bridal  of  Colchairn. 

Copied  :  MILTON,  Oct.  31,  1833,  from  E.  N.  F.'s  Log-book. 


CLEVELAND'S   SONG   TO   MINNA. 

FAREWELL  !  farewell !  the  voice  you  hear, 
Has  left  its  last  soft  tone  with  you ; 

Its  next  must  join  the  seaward  cheer, 
And  shout  among  the  shouting  crew. 

The  accents  which  I  scarce  could  form 
Beneath  your  frown's  controlling  check, 

Must  give  the  word,  above  the  storm, 
To  cut  the  mast,  and  clear  the  wreck. 

The  timid  eye  I  dared  not  raise, 

The  hand,  that  shook  when  pressed  to  thine, 
Must  point  the  guns  upon  the  chase  — 

Must  bid  the  deadly  cutlass  shine. 

To  all  I  love,  or  hope  —  or  fear, 

Honour  or  own,  a  long  adieu  ! 
To  all  that  life  has  soft  and  dear, 

Farewell !  save  memory  of  you  ! 

SCOTT,  The  Pirate. 
Copied:  MILTON,  Oct.  31,  1833. 


THE  BRAES   OF  BALQUHIDDER.  51 


THE   BKAES   OF   BALQUHIDDER. 

LET  us  gae,  lassie,  gae 

To  the  braes  of  Balquhidder, 
Where  the  blae  berries  grow 

Mang  the  bonnie  Highland  heather ; 
Where  the  deer  and  the  rae, 
Lightly  bounding  together, 
Sport  the  lang  summer  day 

'Mang  the  braes  o'  Balquhidder. 
Will  ye  go,  lassie,  go 

To  the  braes  o'  Balquhidder 
Where  the  blae  berries  grow 

'Mang  the  bonnie  bloomin'  heather  ? 

I  will  twine  thee  a  bower 

By  the  clear  siller  fountain, 
And  I  '11  cover  it  o'er 

Wi'  the  flow'rs  o'  the  mountain.; 
I  will  range  through  the  wilds, 

And  the  deep  glens  sae  dreary, 
And  return  wi'  the  spoils 

To  the  bower  o'  my  dearie, 
Will  ye  go,  &c. 

When  the  rude  wintry  win' 

Idly  raves  round  our  dwelling, 
And  the  roar  of  the  linn 

On  the  night  breeze  is  swelling  ; 
Sae  merrily  we  '11  siiig 

As  the  storm  rattles  o'er  us, 
Till  the  deer  shieling  ring 

Wi'  the  light  lilting  chorus. 
Will  ye  go,  &c. 


52  FILL    THE   GOBLET  AGAIN. 

Now  the  summer  is  in  prime 

Wi'  the  flow'rs  richly  blooming, 
And  the  wild  mountain  thyme 

A'  the  moorlands  perfuming  ; 
To  our  dear  native  scenes 
Let  us  journey  together, 
Where  glad  innocence  reigns, 
'Mang  the  braes  of  Balquhidder. 
Will  ye  go,  lassie,  go, 

To  the  braes  o'  Balquhidder, 
Where  the  blae  berries  grow, 

'Mang  the  bonnie  bloomin'  heather  ? 

TANNAHILL. 
Copied  :  Oct.  31,  1833.     Sung  at  NAUSHON. 


FILL   THE   GOBLET   AGAIN. 

FILL  the  goblet  again  !  for  I  never  before 

Felt  the  glow  which  now  gladdens  my  heart  to  its  core  : 

Let  us  drink  !  —  who  would  not  ?  —  since,  through  life's  varied 

round, 
In  the  goblet  alone  no  deception  is  found. 

I  have  tried  in  its  turn  all  that  life  can  supply : 

I  have  basked  in  the  beam  of  a  dark  rolling  eye ; 

I  have  loved  !  —  who  has  not  ?  —  but  what  heart  can  declare 

That  pleasure  existed  while  passion  was  there  ? 

In  the  days  of  my  youth,  when  the  heart 's  in  its  spring, 
And  dreams  that  affection  can  never  take  wing, 
I  had  friends  !  —  who  has  not  \  —  but  what  tongue  will  avow 
That  friends,  rosy  wine !  are  so  faithful  as  thou  ? 


FILL   THE   GOBLET  AGAIN.  53 

The  heart  of  a  mistress  some  boy  may  estrange, 
Friendship  shifts  with  the  sunbeam, —  thou  never  canst  change : 
Thou  grow'st  old, —  who  does  not  ?  —  but  on  earth  what  appears, 
Whose  virtues,  like  thine,  still  increase  with  its  years  ? 

Yet  if  blest  to  the  utmost  that  love  can  bestow, 
Should  a  rival  bow  down  to  our  idol  below, 
We  are  jealous !  —  who 's  not  ?  —  thou  hast  no  such  alloy ; 
For  the  more  that  enjoy  thee,  the  more  we  enjoy. 

Then  the  season  of  youth  and  its  vanities  past, 
For  refuge  we  fly  to  the  goblet  at  last : 
There  we  find, —  do  we  not?  —  in  the  flow  of  the  soul, 
That  truth,  as  of  yore,  is  confined  to  the  bowl. 


Long  life  to  the  grape !  for  when  summer  is  flown, 

The  age  of  our  nectar  shall  gladden  our  own: 

We  must  die  —  who  shall  not?  —  May  our  sins  be  forgiven, 

And  Hebe  shall  never  be  idle  in  heaven. 

BYRON. 

Copied  in  5°  N.,  20°  W. ;  thermometer,  85°  ;  calm;  dead-ahead  ;  "  Logan." 


CLEAR-SIGHTED,   YET   BLIND. 

His  own  merits  perceiving,  sure  S through  the  land 

For  acute  penetration  unrivalled  would  stand, 

Were  it  not  this  one  blemish  pre-eminence  smothers,  — 

He  is  totally  blind  to  the  merits  of  others. 

ANONYMOUS. 


54  DEATH  OF  A  BEAUTIFUL  YOUNG  GIRL. 


DEATH   OF   MAJOE  HOWARD. 

THEIR  praise  is  hymn'd  by  loftier  harps  than  mine ; 
Yet  one  I  would  select  from  that  proud  throng, 
Partly  because  they  blend  me  with  his  line, 
And  partly  that  I  did  his  sire  some  wrong, 
And  partly  that  bright  names  will  hallow  song ; 
And  his  was  of  the  bravest,  and  when  shower'd 
The  death-bolts  deadliest  the  thinn'd  files  along, 
Even  where  the  thickest  of  war's  tempest  lower'd, 
They  reach'd  no  nobler  breast  than  thine,  young,  gallant  Howard 

BYRON,  Childe  Harold. 
Copied  at  sea  48°  S.,  24°  W.  ;  "  Logan." 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF 'A  BEAUTIFUL  YOUNG  GIRL. 

'T  is  ever  thus,  't  is  ever  thus,  when  hope  has  built  a  bower, 
Like  that  of  Eden,  wreathed  about  with  every  thornless  flower, 
To  dwell  therein  securely,  the  self-deceivers  trust, 
A  whirlwind  from  the  desert  comes,  and  "  all  is  in  the  dust.'* 

T  is  ever  thus,  't  is  ever  thus,  that  when  the  poor  heart  clings 
With  all  its  finest  tendrils,  with  all  its  flexile  rings, 
That  goodly  thing  it  cleaveth  to,  so  fondly  and  so  fast, 
Is  struck  to  earth  by  lightning,  or  shattered  by  the  blast. 

i 

'T  is  ever  thus,  't  is  ever  thus,  with  beams  of  mortal  bliss, 

With  looks  too  bright  arid  beautiful  for  such  a  world  as  this : 
One  moment  round  about  us  their  angel  lightnings  play  ; 
Then  down  the  veil  of  darkness  drops,  and  all  has  passed  away. 


ON  ENGLISH   TRAVELLERS.  55 

'T  is  ever  thus,  't  is  ever  thus,  with  sounds  too  sweet  for  earth,  — 
Seraphic  sounds,  that  float  away,  borne  heavenward  in  their  birth : 
The  golden  shell  is  broken,  the  silver  chord  is  mute ; 
The  sweet  bells  are  all  silent,  and  hushed  the  lovely  lute. 

T  is  ever  thus,  't  is  ever  thus,  with  all  that 's  best  below  : 
The  dearest,  noblest,  loveliest,  are  always  first  to  go,  — 
The  bird  that  sings  the  sweetest ;  the  vine  that  crowns  the  rock, 
The  glory  of  the  garden  ;  "  the  flower  of  the  flock." 

'T  is  ever  thus,  't  is  ever  thus,  with  creatures  heavenly  fair, 
Too  finely  framed  to  bide  the  brunt  more  earthly  natures  bear ; 
A  little  while  they  dwell  with  us,  blessed  ministers  of  love, 
Then  spread  the  wings  we  had  not  seen,  and  seek  their  home 

above. 

ANONYMOUS,  Connecticut  Mirror. 

Copied  :  June  17,  1834,  "  Logan,"  off  Cape  ;  gale  of  wind  and  rolling  sea. 


ON   ENGLISH   TRAVELLERS. 

ON  knottiest  points  with  ease  debate, 
Without  one  just  thought  on  the  matter  ; 

With  scarce  the  traveller's  art  to  gaze, 
You  ape  the  sages  to  distinguish ; 

And  while  dear  England's  laws  you  praise, 
You  quite  forget  the  laws  of  English. 

Even  now,  while  freedom  through  the  lands 
Sweeps  gathering  on,  behold  in  all 

His  might  on  Murray's  counter  stands 
And  fires  his  popgun  —  Captain  Hall ! 

'T  is  said  when  famed  Alcides  slew 
The  Earth's  dread,  that  slumber  bound  him. 

The  hero  woke,  attacked  anew, 


56  ONE   STILL  LINGERED. 

And  found  the  tribe  of  pygmies  round  him. 

So  truth  some  mighty  victory  gains, 
And,  lo  !  the  dwarfs  rush  out  to  seize  him  ! 

The  giant  crushed,  there  still  remains, 
Some  tribe  of  Hall's  that  can  but  tease  him. 

But  from  the  traveller  now  we  turn 
One  moment  to  address  the  reader. 

BULWER,  The  Twins. 


THE   GEAVE. 

THE  grave  is  but  a  calmer  bed, 

Where  mortals  sleep  a  longer  sleep,  — 

A  shelter  for  the  houseless  head, 

A  spot  where  wretches  cease  to  weep. 

ANONYMOUS,  Blackwood's  Magazine. 
Copied  :  Jan  29,  1835. 


ONE   STILL  LINGERED. 

ONE  still  lingered,  pale  and  last, 

By  the  lonely'  gallery  stair, 
As  if  his  soul  had  passed, 

Vanished  with  some  stately  fair. 

Who  the  Knight,  to  few  was  known ; 
Who  his  Love,  he  ne'er  would  tell  ; 
But  his  eyes  were  —  like  thine  own, 
But  his  heart  was  —  Oh,  farewell ! 

ANONYMOUS,  Blackwood's  Magazine 
Copied  in  CHINA,  Jan.  29,  1835. 


•BEFORE  JEHOVAH'S  AWFUL    THRONE.  57 


BEFOEE   JEHOVAH'S  AWFUL  THEONE, 

BEFORE  Jehovah's  awful  throne, 

Ye  nations,  bow  with  sacred  joy. 
Know  that  the  Lord  is  God  alone  ; 

He  can  create,  and  he  destroy. 

His  sovereign  power,  without  our  aid, 
Made  us  of  clay,  and  formed  us  men ; 

And  when  like  wandering  sheep  we  strayed, 
He  brought  us  to  his  fold  again. 

We  '11  crowd  thy  gates  with  thankful  songs, 
High  as  the  heavens  our  voices  raise  ; 

And  earth,  with  her  ten  thousand  tongues, 
Shall  fill  thy  courts  with  sounding  praise. 

Wide  as  the  world  is  thy  command ; 

Vast  as  eternity  thy  love ; 
Firm  as  a  rock  thy  truth  shall  stand, 

When  rolling  years  shall  cease  to  move. 

WATTS. 
Copied  in  CHINA,  1835. 


HOPE. 

CEASE  every  joy  to  glimmer  on  my,  mind, 

But  leave,  oh,  leave  the  light  of  hope  behind ; 

What  though  my  winged  hours  of  bliss  have  been 

Like  angel's  visits,  few  and  far  between, 

Her  musing  mood  shall  every  pang  appease, 

And  charm  when  pleasures  lose  the  power  to  please. 

ANONYMOUS. 
Copied  :  CANTON,  Jan.  1,  1836. 


58  LOVE  NOT! 


LOVE  NOT! 

LOVE  not,  love  not !  ye  hapless  sons  of  clay  ! 

Hope's  gayest  wreaths  are  made  of  earthly  flowers,  — 
Things  that  are  made  to  fade  and  fall  away 

Ere  they  have  blossomed  for  a  few  short  hours. 

Love  not ! 

Love  not !  the  thing  ye  love  may  change ! 

The  rosy  lip  may  cease  to  smile  on  you ; 
The  kindly  beaming  eye  grow  cold  and  strange ; 

The  heart  still  warmly  beat,  yet  not  be  true. 

Love  not ! 

Love  not !  the  thing  you  love  may  die, 

May  perish  from  the  gay  and  gladsome  earth ; 

The  silent  stars,  the  blue  and  smiling  sky, 
Beam  o'er  its  grave,  as  once  upon  its  birth. 

Love  not ! 

Love  not !  oh,  warning  vainly  said 

In  present  hours  as  in  years  gone  by  : 
Love  flings  a  halo  round  the  dear  one's  head, 
Faultless,  immortal,  till  they  change  or  die. 

Love  not ! 

CAROLINE  NORTON. 


THE   BKAGGAKT. 

JOHN  puffs  himself ;  forbear  to  chide  : 

An  insect  vile  and  mean 
Must,  well  he  knows,  be  magnified 

Before  it  can  be  seen. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE  BELL  AT  SEA.  59 


COUNTY   GUY. 

AH,  County  Guy,  the  hour  is  nigh, 

The  sun  has  left  the  lea ; 
The  orange  flower  perfumes  the  bower, 

The  breeze  is  on  the  sea. 
The  lark,  his  lay  who  trilled  all  day, 

Sits  hushed  his  partner  nigh  ; 
Breeze,  bird,  and  flower  confess  the  hour ; 

But  where  is  County  Guy  ? 

The  village  maid  steals  through  the  shade, 

Her  shepherd's  suit  to  hear  ; 
To  beauty  shy,  by  lattice  high, 

Sings  high-born  cavalier. 
The  star  of  love,  all  stars  above, 

Now  reigns  o'er  earth  and  sky, 
And  high  and  low  the  influence  know ; 

But  where  is  County  Guy  ? 

SCOTT,  Quentin  Durward. 
Copied:  MACAO,  July  15,  1836. 


THE   BELL  AT   SEA. 

WHEN  the  tide's  billowy  swell 

Had  reached  its  height, 
Then  pealed  the  rock's  lone  bell 

Slowly  by  night. 
Far  over  cliff  and  surge 

Swept  the  deep  sound; 
Making  each  wild  wind's  dirge 

Still  more  profound. 


60  WOOING-TIME. 

Yet  that  funereal  tone 

The  sailor  blest, 
Steering  through  darkness  on   . 

With  fearless  breast. 
E'en  thus  may  we  that  float 

On  life's  wide  sea, 
Welcome  each  warning  note, 

Stern  though  it  be. 

HEMANS. 

Copied  from  Mrs.  GORDON'S  Music-book :  MACAO,  July  21,  1836. 


WOOING-TIME. 

Woo  her  when  with  rosy  blush 

Summer  eve  is  sinking, 
When  on  rills  that  softly  gush 

Stars  are  softly  winking, 
When  through  boughs  that  knit  the  bower 

Moonlight  gleams  are  stealing ; 
Woo  her  till  the  gentle  hour 

Wakes  a  gentler  feeling. 

Woo  her  when  the  north  wind  calls 

At  the  lattice  nightly, 
When  within  the  cheerful  hall 

Blaze  the  fagots  brightly. 
While  the  wintry  tempest  round 

Sweeps  the  landscape  hoary, 
Sweeter  in  her  ear  shall  sound 

Love's  delightful  story. 

BRYANT. 


ISLE   OF  BEAUTY.  61 


HOW  GAYLY  ROWS  THE  GONDOLIER 

How  gayly  rows  the  gondolier, 
When  love  and  hope  his  light  bark  steer ! 
Cheerily  the  southern  breeze  he  braves, 
And  boldly  stems  the  swelling  waves. 

The  gondolier,  how  light  he  rows 
When  not  a  star  its  radiance  throws  ! 
'T  is  time  his  swift  bark  on  to  urge 
Across  the  gently  flowing  surge. 

ANONYMOUS. 


ISLE   OF   BEAUTY. 

SHADES  of  evening,  close  not  o'er  us, 

Leave  our  lonely  bark  awhile ; 
Morn,  alas  !  will  not  restore  us 

Yonder  dim  and  distant  isle. 
Still  my  fancy  can  discover 

Sunny  spots  where  friends  may  dwell ; 
Darker  shadows  round  us  hover  : 

Isle  of  beauty,  fare  thee  well. 

'T  is  the  hour  when  happy  faces 

Smile  around  the  taper's  light ; 
Who  will  fill  our  vacant  places, 
,  Who  will  sing  our  songs  to-night  ? 


62  THE  LIGHT  BARK. 

Through  the  mist  that  floats  above  us 
Faintly  sounds  the  vesper  bell, 

Like  a  voice  from  those  who  love  us, 
Breathing  fondly,  Fare  thee  well ! 

When  the  waves  are  round  me  breaking, 

As  I  pace  the  deck  alone, 
And  my  eye  in  vain  is  seeking 

,Some  green  leaf  to  rest  upon, 
What  would  I  not  give  to  wander 

Where  my  old  companions  dwell  ? 
Absence  makes  the  heart  grow  fonder : 

Isle  of  beauty,  fare  thee  well ! 

T.  H.  BAYLY. 


THE   LIGHT   BARK. 

"  OFF,"  said  the  stranger,  "  off,  off,  and  away ! " 
And  away  flew  the  light  bark  o'er  the  silvery  bay. 
"  We  must  reach  ere  to-morrow  the  far  distant  wave ; 
The  billows  we'll  laugh  at,  the  tempest  we'll  brave." 

The  young  roving  lovers,  their  vows  have  been  given ; 
Unsmiled  on  by  mortals,  but  hallowed  in  heaven : 
She  was  Italy's  daughter,  I  knew  by  her  eye  ; 
It  wore  the  bright  beam  that  illumines  her  sky. 

And  she  has  forsaken  her  palace  and  halls 
For  the  chill  breeze  and  the  light  which  falls 
O'er  the  pure  wave  from  the  heavens  above ; 
And  their  guiding  star  was  the  bright  star  of  love. 

ANONYMOUS. 


GONDOLA.  63 


GONDOLA. 

WHAT  fairy-like  music 

Steals  over  the  sea, 
Entrancing  our  senses 

With  charmed  melody ! 
'T  is  the  voice  of  the  mermaid, 

That  floats  o'er  the  main, 
As  she  mingles  her  song 

With  the  gondolier's  strain. 

The  winds  are  all  hushed, 

And  the  water 's  at  rest ; 
They  sleep  like  the  passions 

In  infancy's  breast ! 
Till  the  storms  shall  unchain  them 

From  out  their  dark  cave, 
And  break  the  repose 

Of  the  soul  and  the  wave. 

ANONYMOUS. 
Copied:  MACAO,  July  21,  1836.     Mrs.  LONG'S  song. 


MORTAL 

CAN  any  mixture  of  earth's  mould 
Breathe  such  divine,  enchanting  ravishment  ? 
For  such  a  sacred  and  home-felt  delight, 
Such  sober  certainty  of  waking  bliss, 
I  never  knew  till  now. 

MILTON,  Comus. 


64  LINES   TO  A   LADY. 


LINES  TO   A   LADY. 

THE  leaf  floats  by  upon  the  stream, 

\Jn  heeded  in  its  silent  path  ; 
The  vision  of  the  shadowy  dream 

A  similar  remembrance  hath. 

The  cloud  that  floats  across  the  moon 
Scarce  brightens  ere  its  hues  are  gone ; 

The  mist  that  shrouds  the  lake,  as  soon 
Must  vanish  as  the  night  hath  flown. 

The  dove  hath  cleft  the  pure  blue  sky ; 

No  traces  of  his  wing  are  there. 
The  light  hath  dwelt  in  beauty's  eye ; 

It  was  but  now  —  and  now  is,  where  ? 

The  winds  of  night  have  passed  the  flower ; 

Hath  morning  found  its  gay  leaf  dim  ? 
The  bird  hath  sung  by  lady's  bower ; 

To-morrow  will  she  think  of  him  ? 

But  still  the  cloud  may  not  forget 
The  moon's  serene  but  parting  light ; 

The  bird,  the  leaf,  remember  yet 

One  that  hath  made  their  pathway  bright. 

And  I,  though  cold  neglect  be  mine. 
My  name  to  deep  oblivion  given, 
Will,  while  on  earth,  remember  thine, 
And  breathe  it  to  my  lyre  in  heaven. 

ANONYMOUS. 
Copied:  ALBION,  July  22,  1836. 


BRIDAL   SERENADE.  65 


BEIDAL   SEKENADE. 

WILT  thou  not  waken,  Bride  of  May, 
While  flowers  are  fresh  and  the  sweet  bells  chime  ? 
Listen  and  learn  from  my  roundelay 
How  all  life's  pilot-boats  sailed  one  day 
A  match  with  Time. 

Love  sat  on  a  lotus  leaf  afloat, 
And  saw  old  Time  in  his  loaded  boat ; 
Slowly  he  crossed  life's  narrow  tide, 
While  Love  sat  clapping  his  wings  and  cried, 
"  Who  will  pass  Time  ? " 

\ 
i 
Patience  came  first,  but  soon  was  gone 

With  helm  and  sail  to  help  Time  on  ; 
Care  and  Grief  could  not  lend  an  oar, 
And  Prudence  said,  while  he  stayed  on  shore, 
"  I  '11  wait  for  Time." 

Hope  filled  with  flowers  her  oak-tree  bark, 
And  lighted  its  helm  with  a  glowworm's  spark ; 
Then  Love,  when  he  saw  her  bark  fly  fast, 
Said,  "  Lingering  Time  will  soon  be  past ; 
Hope  outspeeds  Time." 

Wit  went  nearest  old  Time  to  pass, 
With  his  diamond  oar,  and  his  boat  of  glass ; 
A  feathery  dart  from  his  store  he  drew, 
And  shouted,  while  far  and  swift  it  flew, 
"  Oh,  Mirth  kills  Time." 


66  THE  MOURNER. 

But  Time  sent  the  feathery  arrows  back, 
Hope's  boat  of  amaranths  missed  the  track  ; 
Then  Love  bade  his  butterfly  pilots  move, 
And  laughingly  said,  ""They  shall  see  how  Love 
Can  conquer  Time." 

His  gossamer  sails  he  spread  with  speed  ; 
But  Time  has  wings  when  Time  has  need. 
Swiftly  he  crossed  Life's  sparkling  tide, 
And  only  Memory  stayed  to  chide, 
Unpityiug  Time  ! 

Wake  and  listen,  thou  Bride  of  May  ! 
Listen  and  heed  thy  minstrel's  rhyme. 
Still  for  the'e  some  bright  hours  stay ; 
For  it  was  a  hand  like  thine,  they  say, 
Gave  wings  to  Time. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE  MOURNER 

SHE  flung  her  white  arms  around  him.     "  Thou  art  all 

That  this  poor  heart  can  cling  to ;  yet  I  feel 

That  I  am  rich  in  blessings,  and  the  fear 

Of  this  most  bitter  moment  still  is  mingled 

With  a  strange  joy.     Eeposing  on  thy  heart, 

I  hear  the  blasts  of  fortune  sweeping  by, 

As  a  babe  lists  to  music,  —  wondering, 

But  not  affrighted.     In  the  darkest  hour 

Thy  smile  is  brightest ;  and  when  I  am  wretched, 

Then  am  I  most  beloved.     In  hours  like  this 

The  soul's  resources  rise,  and  all  its  strength 


THE  HOUR   OF  DEATH.  67 

Bounds  into  being !     I  would  rather  live 
With  all  my  faculties  thus  wakened  round  me, 
Of  hopes  and  fears  and  joys  and  sympathies, 
A  few  short  moments,  even  with  every  feeling 
Smarting  from  Fate's  deep  lash,  than  a  long  age, 
However  calm  and  free  from  turbulence, 
Bereft  of  these  most  high  capacities. 
Not  vainly  have  I  nursed  them :  for  there  is 
An  impulse. even  in  suffering,  and  so  pure 
Eise  the  eternal  hopes,  called  by  them  anguish, 
Of  a  world-wearied  spirit." 

Miss  ROSCOE,  of  Liverpool. 
Copied  :  MACAO,  July  22,  1836. 


THE  HOUR   OF  DEATH. 

LEAVES  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north-wind's  breath, 

And  stars  to  set,  —  but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  0  Death  ! 

Day  is  for  mortal  care, 
Eve  for  glad  meetings  round  the  joyous  hearth, 

Night  for  the  dreams  of  sleep,  the  voice  of  prayer, 
But  all  for  thee,  thou  mightiest  of  the  earth ! 

The  banquet  hath  its  hour, 
Its  feverish  hour  of  mirth  and  song  and  wine ; 

There  comes  a  day  of  griefs  o'er  whelming  power,  - 
A  time  for  softer  tears,  —  but  all  are  thine. 


68  THE   HOUR    OF  DEATH. 

Youth  and  the  opening  rose 
May  look  like  things  too  glorious  for  decay, 

And  smile  at  thee,  —  but  thou  art  not  of  those 
That  wait  the  ripened  bloom  to  seize  their  prey. 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north- wind's  breath, 

And  stars  to  set,  —  but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  0  Death ! 

We  know  when  moons  shall  wane, 
When  siimmer  birds  from  far  shall  cross  the  sea, 

When  autumn's  hues  shall  tinge  the  golden  grain,  — 
But  who  shall  teach  us  when  to  look  for  thee  ? 

Is  it  when  spring's  first  gale 
Comes  forth  to  whisper  where  the  violets  lie  ? 

Is  it  when  roses  in  our  paths  grow  pale  ?  — 
They  have  one  season,  —  all  are  ours  to  die  ! 

Thou  art  where  billows  foam, 
Thou  art  where  music  melts  upon  the  air ; 

Thou  art  around  us  in  our  peaceful  home ; 
And  the  world  calls  us  forth,  —  and  thou  art  there. 

Thou  art  where  friend  meets  friend, 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  elm  to  rest,  — 

Thou  art  where  foe  meets  foe,  and  trumpets  rend 
The  skies,  and  swords  beat  down  the  princely  crest.  „ 

Leaves  have  their  time  to  fall, 
And  flowers  to  wither  at  the  north-wind's  breath, 

And  stars  to  set,  —  but  all, 
Thou  hast  all  seasons  for  thine  own,  0  Death ! 

MRS.  HEMANS. 
Copied  :  CHINA,  July  22,  1836. 


ALNWICK   CASTLE.  69 

ALNWICK   CASTLE. 

EXTRACTS. 

GAZE  on  the  Abbey's  ruined  pile ; 

Does  not  the  succoring  ivy,  keeping 
Her  watch  around  it,  seein  to  smile, 

As  o'er  a  loved  one  sleeping  ? 
One  solitary  turret  gray 

Still  tells,  in  melancholy  glory, 
The  legend  of  the  Cheviot  day, 

The  Percy's  proudest  border-story. 
That  day  its  roof  was  triumph's  arch  ; 

Then  rang,  from  aisle  to  pictured  dome, 
The  light  step  of  the  soldier's  march, 

The  music  of  the  trump  and  drum  ; 
And  babe  and  sire,  the  old,  the  young, 
And  the  monk's  hymn  and  minstrel's  song, 
And  woman's  pure  kiss,  sweet  and  long, 

Welcomed  her  warrior  home. 

Wild  roses  by  the  Abbey  towers 

Are  gay  in  their  young  bud  and  bloom ; 
They  were  born  of  a  race  of  funeral  flowers 
That  garlanded,  in  long-gone  hours, 

A  templar's  knightly  tomb. 
He  died,  the  sword  in  his  mailed  hand, 
On  the  holiest  spot  of  the  Blessed  Land, 

Where  the  Cross  was  damped  with  his  dying  breath, 
When  blood  ran  free  as  festal  wine, 
And  the  sainted  air  of  Palestine 

Was  thick  with  the  darts  of  death. 


70  ALNWICK  CASTLE. 

Wise  with  the  lore  of  centuries, 

What  tales,  if  there  he  "  tongues  iu  trees," 

Those  giant  oaks  could  tell, 
Of  beings  born  and  buried  here,  — 
Tales  of  the  peasant  and  the  peer, 
Tales  of  the  bridal  and  the  bier, 

The  welcome  and  farewell,  — 
Since  on  their  boughs  the  startled  bird 
First,  in  her  twilight  slumbers,  heard 

The  Norman's  curfew-bell. 


And  noble  name  and  cultured  land, 

Palace,  and  park,  and  vassal  band, 

Are  powerless  to  the  notes  of  hand 

Of  Eothschild  or  the  Barings. 

The  age  of  bargaining,  said  Burke, 
Has  come :  to-day  the  turbaned  Turk 
(Sleep,  Kichard  of  the  lion  heart ! 
Sleep  on,  nor  from  your  cerements  start) 

Is  England's  friend  and  fast  ally ; 
The  Moslem  tramples  on  the  Greek, 

And  on  the  Cross  and  altar-stone, 

And  Christendom  looks  tamely  on, 
And  hears  the  Christian  maiden  shriek, 

And  sees  the  Christian  father  die ; 
And  not  a  sabre  blow  is  given 
For  Greece  and  fame,  for  faith  and  heaven, 

By  Europe's  craven  chivalry.  , 

You  '11  ask  if  yet  the  Perby  lives 
In  the  armed  pomp  of  feudal  state. 


HOW  STANDS  THE  GLASS  AROUND?       71 

The  present  representatives 

Of  Hotspur  and  his  "gentle  Kate" 
Are  some  half-dozen  serving-men 
In  the  drab  coat  of  William  Penn ; 

A  chambermaid,  whose  lip  and  eye, 
And  cheek,  and  brown  hair,  bright  and  curling, 

Spoke  nature's  aristocracy ; 
And  one,  half  groom,  half  seneschal, 
Who  bowed  me  through  court,  bower,  and  hall, 
From  donjon-keep  to  turret  wall, 

For  ten-and-sixpence  sterling. 

HALLECK. 


HOW  STANDS  THE  GLASS   AROUND? 

SAID    TO    HAVE    BEEN    SUNG   BY    GENERAL    WOLFE    THE    EVENING 
BEFORE    HE    WAS    KILLED    AT   QUEBEC. 

• 

How  stands  the  glass  around  ? 
For  shame,  ye  take  no  care,  my  boys  ! 

How  stands  the  glass  around  ? 

Let  mirth  and  wine  abound. 

The  trumpets  sound, 
The  colors  they  are  flying,  boys,  — 

To  fight,  kill,  or  wound : 

May  we  still  be  found 
Content  with  our  hard  fate,  my  boys, 
On  the  cold  ground ! 

Why,  soldiers,  why 
Should  we  be -melancholy,  boys  ? 

Why,  soldiers,  why, 
Whose  business  't  is  to  die  ? 
What  I  sighing  ?  fie ! 


72  TO   THE  DIM  AND   GLOOMY  SHORE. 

Don't  fear :  drink  on  :  be  jolly,  boys  ! 

'T  is  he,  you,  or  I ! 

Cold,  hot,  wet,  or  dry, 
We  're  always  bound  to  follow,  boys, 
And  scorn  to  fly  ! 

Tis  but  in  vain, — 
I  mean  not  to  upbraid  you,  boys,  — 

'Tis  but  in  vain 
For  soldiers  to  complain  : 
Should  next  campaign 
Send  us  to  Him  who  made  us,  boys 
We  're  free  from  pain ; 
But  if  we  remain, 
A  bottle  and  a  kind  landlady 
Cure  all  again. 

ANONYMOUS,  Old  Song. 
Copied:  Oct.  9,  1836. 


TO   THE  DIM  AND   GLOOMY   SHOEE. 

To  the  dim  and  gloomy  shore 
Thou  art  gone  some  steps  before ; 
But  thither  the  swift  hours  lead  us  ! 
If  Love  may  in  life  be  brief, 

In  death  it  is  fixed  forever ! 
In  the  hall  which  our  feasts  illume, 
The  flower  for  an  hour  may  bloom ; 
But  the  cypress  that  decks  the  tomb, 

The  cypress,  is  green  forever. 

BULWER. 

Sent  me  by  MADGE.     Copied :  Sunday,  Oct.  9,  1836. 


THE   CATHEDRAL.  73 


THE   CATHEDRAL. 

How  loud  amid  these  silent  aisles 

My  quiet  footstep  falls, 
Where  words,  like  ancient  chronicles, 

Are  scattered  on  the  walls. 
A  thousand  phantoms  seem  to  rise 

Beneath  my  lightest  tread, 
And  echoes  bring  me  back  replies 

From  homes  that  hold  the  dead. 
The  loftiest  passions  and  the  least 

Lie  sleeping  side  by  side, 
And  love  hath  reared  its  staff  of  rest 

Beside  the  grave  of  pride. 

Alike  o'er  each,  alike  o'er  all, 

Their  lone  memorials  wave  ; 
The  banner  on  the  sculptured  wall, 

The  thistle  o'er  the  grave, 
Each,  herald-like,  proclaims  the  style 

And  bearings  of  the  dead, 
But  hangs  one  moral  all  the  while 

Above  each  slumbering  head. 

And  the  breeze,  like  an  ancient  bard,  comes  by, 

And  touches  the  solemn  chords 
Of  the  harp  which  death  has  hung  on  high ; 

And  fancy  weaves  the  words,  — 
Songs  that  have  one  unwearied  tone, 

Though  they  sing  of  many  an  age, 
And  tales  to  which  each  graven  stone 

Is  but  a  titlepage  ! 


74  TO  MY   YACHT. 

The  warrior  here  hath  sheathed  his  sword, 

The  poet  crushed  his  lyre, 
The  miser  left  his  counted  hoard, 

The  chemist  quenched  his  fire. 
The  maiden  nevermore  steals  forth 

To  hear  her  lover's  lute, 
And  all  the  trumpets  of  the  earth 

In  the  soldier's  ear  are  mute. 

The  moonlight  sits,  with  her  sad,  sweet  smile, 

O'er  the  heedless  painter's  rest, 
And  the  organ  rings  through  the  vaulted  aisle, 

But  it  stirs  not  the  minstrel's  breast. 

The  mariner  has  no  wish  to  roam 

/ 

From  his  safe  and  silent  shore, 
And  the  weeping  in  the  mourner's  home 

Is  hushed  forevermore ! 

ANONYMOUS. 


TO   MY   YACHT. 

AWAY,  o'er  the  wave  to  the  home  we  are  seeking, 
Bark  of  my  hope,  ere  the  evening  be  gone ! 

There 's  a  wild,  ,wild  note  in  the  curlew's  shrieking  ; 
There  's  a  whisper  of  death  in  the  wind's  low  moan. 

Though  blue  and  bright  are  the  heavens  above  me, 
And  the  stars  are  asleep  on  the  quiet  sea, 

And  hearts  I  love,  and  hearts  that  love  me, 
Are  beating  beside  me  merrily, 

Yet  far  in  the  west,  where  the  day's  faded  roses, 
Touched  by  the  moonbeam,  are  withering  fast,  — 

Where  the  half-seen  spirit  of  twilight  reposes, 
Hymning  the  dirge  of  the  hours  that  are  past,  — 


THE   WINSOME    WEE    THING.  75 

There,  where  the  ocean  wave  sparkles  at  meeting 
(As  sunset  dreams  tell  us)  the  kiss  of  the  sky, 

On  his  dun,  dark  cloud  is  the  infant  storm  sitting, 
And  beneath  the  horizon  his  lightnings  are  nigh. 

Another  hour,  and  the  death-word  is  given,  — 

Another  hour,  and  his  lightnings  are  here ; 
Speed,  speed  thee,  my  bark,  ere  the  breeze  of  even 

Is  lost  in  the  tempest,  our  home  will  be  near. 

Then  away  o'er  the  wave,  while  thy  pennant  is  streaming 

In  shadowy  light,  like  a  shooting  star ; 
Be  swift  as  the  thought  of  the  wanderer,  dreaming, 

In  a  stranger  land,  of  his  fireside  afar. 

And  while  memory  lingers  I  '11  fondly  believe  thee 

A  being  with  life  and  its  best  feelings  warm, 
And  freely  the  wild  song  of  gratitude  weave  thee, 
Blessed  spirit,  that  bore  me  and  mine  from  the  storm. 

HALLECK,  Fanny. 
MACAO,  Feb.  22,  1836.     Copied:  CANTON,  Oct.  9,  1836. 


THE  WINSOME  WEE  THING. 

SHE  is  a  winsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  handsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  lo'esome  wee  thing, 
This  dear  wee  wife  o'  mine  1 

I  never  saw  a  fairer, 
I  never  lo'ed  a  dearer ; 
And  neist  my  heart  I  '11  wear  her, 
For  fear  my  jewel  tina 


76  All,   MR.  B. 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  handsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  lo'esome  wee  thing, 
This  dear  wee  wife  o'  mine  ! 

The  warld's  wrack  we  share  o 't, 
The  warstle  and  the  care  o't ; 
Wi'  her  I  '11  blithely  bear  it, 

And  think  my  lot  divine. 

BURNS. 

Copied  oil  board  ship  "  Lucouia,"  at  sea,  Jan.  1, 1837. 


AH,   MR   B. 

Am  :  "  County  Guy." 
(  Written  on  Mr.  Tom  Seal's  keeping  a  large  party  waiting  at  Vachills,  June,  1831.) 

AH,  Mr.  B.,  'tis  half -past  three: 

The  soup  has  left  the  fire, 
The  salmon  fish  perfumes  the  dish  ; 

We  all  begin  to  tire. 
The  soles  in  state  thy  coming  wait, 

And  fragrant  lies  the  eel ; 
Fish,  soup,  and  plate  confess  'tis  late, 

But  where  is  Monsieur  Beal  ? 

A  half-hour 's  sped,  —  he  's  surely  dead, 

Or  else  he  'd  send  a  chit ; 
I  '11  bet  you  two  to  one  he  's  had 

An  apoplectic  fit. 

(lost!) 

What  bell  rings  .at  the  gate  ? 
"  His  ghost,  his  ghost ! "  loud  cries  our  host ; 

'T  is  Monsieur  Beal,  though  late. 

ANONYMOUS. 
Copied  :  Jan.  1,  1837. 


MY  TENT  ON  SHORE,  MY  GALLEY  ON  THE  SEA. 


HE  THAT   HATH   SAILED. 


HE  that  hath  sailed  upon  the  dark  blue  sea 
Has  viewed  at  times,  I  ween,  a  full  fair  sight, 
When  the  fresh  breeze  is  fair  as  breeze  may  be, 
The  white  sails  set,  the  gallant  vessel  light, 
Masts,  spars,  and  strand  retiring  to  the  right, 
The  glorious  main  expanding  on  the  bow. 

BYROX,  Childe  Harold. 

Copied  during  a  vexatious  calm,  a  contrast  to  the  above,  on  board  ship  "  Luco- 
nia,"  Jan.  1,  1837. 


MY  TENT   ON   SHOEE,   MY  GALLEY  ON   THE  SEA. 


So  let  them  ease  their  hearts  with  prate 
Of  equal  rights,  which  men  ne'er  knew ; 
I  have  a  love  for  freedom  too. 

Ay  !  let  me,  like  the  ocean  patriarch,  roam, 

Or  only  know  on  land  the  Tartar's  home  ! 

My  tent  on  shore,  my  galley  on  the  sea, 

Are  more  than  cities  and  Serais  to  me. 

Borne  by  my  steed  or  wafted  by  my  sail, 

Across  the  desert  or  before  the  gale, 

Bound  where  thou  wilt,  my  barb!  or  glide,  my  prow ! 

But  be  the  star  that  guides  the  wanderer,  Thou  ! 

Thou,  my  Zuleika,  share  and  bless  my  bark ; 

The  dove  of  peace  and  promise  to  mine  ark  ! 


78  ADDRESS   TO  MY  WASHERWOMAN. 

Or,  since  that  hope  denied  in  worlds  of  strife, 
Be  thou  the  rainbow  to  the  storms  of  life ; 
The  evening  beam  that  smiles  the  clouds  away, 
And  tints  to-morrow  with  prophetic  ray  ! 

How  dear  the  dream  in  darkest  hours  of  ill, 
Should  all  be  changed,  to  find  thee  faithful  still ! 
Be  but  thy  soul,  like  Selim's,  firmly  shown  ; 
To  thee  be  Selim's  tender  as  thine  own,  — 
To  soothe  each  sorrow,  share  in  each  delight, 
Blend  every  thought,  do  all,  —  but  disunite. 

BYRON,  TJie  Bride  of  Abydos. 
Copied  :  Jan.  1,  1837. 


ADDRESS  TO  MY  WASHERWOMAN 

ON   MISSING   SOME   FINE   SHIRTS. 

FALSEST  of  womankind,  canst  thou  declare 
All  my  nice  plaited  shirts  vanished  like  air  ? 

To  thy  new  master  hie, 

On  him  the  same  trick  try  ; 

Then  ask  thy  pocket  why 

No  cash  is  there. 

ANONYMOUS.   ' 

EXTRACT. 

WE  believe  that  fate  is  less  capricious  than  is  imagined ;  that 
nearly  all  men  (though  this  is  a  singular  assertion)  have  through 
life,  in  their  several  grades,  the  same  average  of  opportunities. 
It  is  he  who  can  seize  and  connect  them,  and  by  keen  sight  and 
ready  experience  calculate  on  their  re-occurrence,  for  whom  men 
have  their  applause  and  Fortune  her  garland. 

BULWER,  Disovmed. 


THE  LAST   JOURNEY.  79 


THE  LAST  JOUKNEY. 

The  custom  of  an  Egyptian  funeral  procession  is  to  pause  before  the  door  of 
certain  houses,  sometimes  receding  a  few  steps  for  the  dead  to  bid  a  last  farewell 
to  their  friends  and  to  effect  a  reconciliation  with  their  enemies. 

SLOWLY  with  measured  tread 
Onward  we  bear  the  dead 

To  his  lone  home. 
Short  grows  the  homeward  road ; 
On  with  your  mortal  load, 

O  grave,  we  come ! 

Yet,  yet,  ah !  hasten  not 
Past  each  remembered  spot 

Where  he  had  been ; 
Where  late  he  walked  in  glee, 
There  from  henceforth  to  be 

Nevermore  seen. 

Eest  ye,  set  down  the  bier ; 
One  he  loved  dwelleth  here : 

Let  the  dead  lie 
A  moment  that  door  beside, 
Wont  to  fly  open  wide, 

Ere  he  drew  nigh. 

Hearken !  he  speaketh  yet : 
"  O  friend,  wilt  thou  forget 

(Friend  more  than  brother) 
How  hand  in  hand  we  've  gone, 
Heart  with  heart  linked  in  one, 

All  to  each  other  ? 


80  THE  LAST  JOURNEY. 

"  0  friend,  I  go  from  thee,  — 
Where  the  worm  feasteth  free, 

Darkly  to  dwell ; 
Giv'st  thou  no  parting  kiss  ? 
Friend  !  is  it  come  to  this  ? 

0  friend,  farewell ! " 

Uplift  your  load  again  ; 
Take  up  the  mourning  strain, 

Pour  the  deep  wail. 
Lo  !  the  expected  one 
To  his  place  passeth  on  ; 

Grave,  bid  him  hail ! 

Yet,  yet,  ah  !  slowly  move ; 
Bear  not  the  form  we  love 

Fast  from  our  sight : 
Let  the  air  breathe  on  him, 
And  the  sun  beam  on  him 

Last  looks  of  light. 

Here  dwells  his  mortal  foe ; 
Lay  the  departed  low, 

Even  at  his  gate : 
Will  the  dead  speak  again, 
Utt'ring  proud  boasts  and  vain, 

Last  words  of  hate  ? 

Lo !  the  cold  lips  unclose  ; 

List !  list !  what  sounds  are  those, 

Plaintive  and  low  ? 
"  0  thou,  mine  enemy, 
Come  forth  and  look  on  me 

Ere  hence  I  go. 


MORTON  SEEKING   THE  BLIND    WIDOW.  81 

"  Curse  not  thy  f oeman  now ; 
Mark  on  his  pallid  brow 

Whose  seal  is  set. 
Pardoning,  I  pass  away  ; 
Then  wage  not  war  with  clay, 

Pardon, —  forget!" 

Now  all  his  labor  's  done, 
Now,  now  the  goal  is  won, 

O  grave,  we  come  !  , 

Seal  up  this  precious  dust, 
Land  of  the  good  and  just ! 

Take  the  soul  home. 

MRS.  SOUTHEY. 
Copied  :  three  days  from  ST.  HELENA,  Feb.  12,  1837. 


T  is  o'er,  he  sleeps ;  the  sea-bird  and  the  surge, 
The  tempest  breezes,  swell  his  only  dirge. 

ANONYMOUS. 


MORTON   SEEKING  THE   BLIND   WIDOW. 

THE  track  of  the  road  followed  the  course  of  the  brook,  which 
was  now  visible  and  now  only  to  be  distinguished  by  the  brawl- 
ing heard  among  the  stones,  or  in  the  clefts  of  the  rock  that 
occasionally  interrupted  its  course. 

"  Murmurer  that  thou  art,"  said  Morton,  in  the  enthusiasm  of 
his  reverie,  "  why  chafe  with  the  rocks  that  stop  thy  course  for  a 
moment  ?  There  is  a  sea  to  receive  thee  in  its  bosom,  and  an 
eternity  for  man  when  his  fretful  and  hasty  course  through  the 
vale  of  time  shall  be  ceased  and  over.  What  thy  petty  fuming 
is  to  the  deep  and  vast  billows  of  a  shoreless  ocean  are  our 
cares,  hopes,  fears,  joys,  and  sorrows,  to  the  objects  which 
most  occupy  us  through  the  awful  and  boundless  succession 
of  ages."  SCOTT,  Old  Mortality. 


82  ROB  ROY'S   GRAVE. 


SOUND,   SOUND   THE  CLARION. 

SOUND,  sound  the  clarion,  fill  the  fife ! 

To  all  the  sensual  world  proclaim, 
One  crowded  hour  of  glorious  life 

Is  worth  an  age  without  a  name. 

ANONYMOUS,  Old  Mortality. 

Copied  :  Sunday,  Feb.  19,  1837,  5°  S. 


ROB   ROY'S   GRAVE. 

A  FAMOUS  man  is  Robin  Hood, 
The  English  ballad-singer's  joy  ! 

And  Scotland  has  a  thief  as  good, 

An  outlaw  of  as  daring  mood : 
She  has  her  brave  Rob  Roy. 

Say,  then,  that  he  was  wise  as  brave,  — 
As  wise  in  thought,  as  bold  in  deed ; 

For  in  the  principle  of  things 
He  sought  his  moral  creed. 

Said  generous  Rob,  "  What  need  of  books  ? 

Burn  all  the  statutes  and  their  shelves : 
They  stir  us  up  against  our  kind, 

And  worse,  against  ourselves. 

"  We  have  a  passion,  make  a  law, 
Too  false  to  guide  us  or  control ; 

And  for  the  law  itself  we  fight 
In  bitterness  of  soul. 


ROB  ROY'S   GRAVE.  83 

"  And,  puzzled,  blinded  thus,  we  lose 

Distinctions  that  are  plain  and  few : 
These  find  I  graven  on  my  heart ; 

That  tells  me  what  to  do. 

"  The  creatures  see  of  flood  and  field, 

And  those  that  travel  on  the  wind ! 
With  them  no  strife  can  last :  they  live 

In  peace,  and  peace  of  mind. 

"  For  why  ?  because  the  good  old  rule 

Sufficeth  them,  —  the  simple  plan, 
That  they  should  take,  who  have  the  power, 

And  they  should  keep,  who  can. 

"  A  lesson  which  is  quickly  learned, 

A  signal  this  which  all  can  see ! 
Thus  nothing  here  provokes  the  strong 

To  wanton  cruelty. 

"  All  freakishness  of  mind  is  checked ; 

He  tamed,  who  foolishly  aspires ; 
While  to  the  measure  of  his  might 

Each  fashions  his  desires. 

"  All  kinds  and  creatures  stand  and  fall 

By  strength  of  prowess  or  of  wit : 
'T  is  God's  appointment  who  must  sway 

And  who  is  to  submit. 

"  Since  then,  the  rule  of  right  is  plain, 

And  longest  life  is  but  a  day ; 
To  have  my  ends,  maintain  my  rights, 

I  '11  take  the  shortest  way." 


84  "MERRY  ENGLAND." 

And  thus  among  the  rocks  he  lived, 

Through  summer's  heat  and  winter's  snow : 

The  eagle,  he  was  lord  above, 
And  Eob  was  lord  below. 

WORDSWORTH. 
Copied  at  sea :  Sunday,  March  5,  1837  ;  N.  E.  Trade  ;  13°  N.,  42°  W. 


"MERRY   ENGLAND." 

"  MERRY  England ! "  what  picture  do  these  simple  words  recall ! 
Hamlets  resting  in  the  shelter  of  the  old  ancestral  hall ; 
Tower  and  spire,  and  park  and  palace,  halls  whose  hospitable  door 
Never  yet  repelled  the  weary,  never  closed  against  the  poor. 

Bands  of  yeomen,  brave  and  loyal ;  nobles,  courteous,  frank,  and 

free ; 

Fearless  rulers,  firmly  blending  gentleness  with  dignity ; 
Peaceful  days,  when  old  Religion,  like  a  silver-circling  band, 
Clasped  alike  round  prince  and  peasant,  bound  in  one  accord 

the  land. 

In  their  pew  beside  their  household,  Squire  and  Lady  duly  seen ; 
Blithesome  looks  at  fair  and  market,  lightsome  dance  on  village 

green; 
Winter  nights,  where  kindly  neighbors  passed  the  harmless  jest 

or  tale, 
While  the  fagot's  cheerful  crackle  thawed  the  old  October  ale. 

Ruddy  children  daily  whooping  underneath  the  ancient  oak, 
Hoary  woods  around  them  ringing  to  their  father's  stalwart 
stroke ; 


"MERRY  ENGLAND."  85 

Sunny  slopes,  where  busy  sickles  sparkled  through  the  golden 

grain ; 
And  from  darkening  lanes  at  evening,  sportive  laugh  of  maid 

or  swain. 

Still  the  land  is  fair  as  ever ;  still  the  sun's  departing  glow 
Lies  as  bright  on  spire  and  turret,  lingering  there  as  loath  to 

go: 

But  the  sunshine  of  the  spirit,  trusting  heart,  and  open  brow,  — 
Whither  have  they  all  departed  ?     "  Merry  England,"  where  art 

thou  ? 

i 

See,  through  yonder  blazing  city,  riot,  blood,  and  plunder  rave ; 

Europe's  savior  scarce  escaping  death  from  those  he  fought  to 
save; 

•Startled  streets,  whose  mournful  echoes  render  back  the  bat- 
tle's din ; 

Flying  crowds,  and  charging  horsemen !  Peace  abroad,  but 
war  within. 

Where  the  faith  that  with  a  glory  wreathed  the   monarch's 

sacred  crown  ? 
Where  the  ties  that  linked  the  lowly  with  the  loftiest  peer's 

renown  ? 
Where  the  reverence,  deep  and  holy,  which  on  lawn  and  ermine 

saw 
God's  own  stamp,  and  in  their  wearers,  loved  religion,  feared 

the  law  ? 

Altars   spurned   and   thrones   insulted,  order  scoffed  at,  laws 

defied ; 
Factious  subjects,  dastard  rulers,  —  shifting  with  the  shifting 

tide,  — 


86  MATERNAL  AFFECTION. 

Doubtful  present,  darker  future!     Anxious  heart  and  clouded 

brow, 
These  are  now  thy  altered  features,  —  mournful  England,  such 

ANONYMOUS,  Blackwood's  Magazine. 
Copied  from  the  "Boston  Patriot,"  Sunday,  March  12,  1837. 


EPITAPH   ON   NAPOLEON'S  TOMB  AT   ST.   HELENA. 

IN  IMITATION   OF  BOMBASTES. 

HEEE  lies  Boney,  stout  of  heart  and  limb, 
Who  conquered  all  but  Welly,  —  Welly,  him ! 

ANONYMOUS. 

MATERNAL  AFFECTION. 

THERE  is  something  in  sickness  that  breaks  down  the  pride 
of  manhood,  that  softens  the  heart  and  brings  it  back  to  the 
feelings  of  infancy.  Who  that  has  languished,  even  in  advanced 
life,  in  sickness,  in  despondency,  —  who  that  has  pined  on  a 
weary  bed  in  the  neglect  and  loneliness  of  a  foreign  land,  —  but 
has  thought  of  the  mother  that  looked  on  his  childhood,  that 
smoothed  his  pillow  and  administered  to  his  helplessness  ?  Oh, 
there  is  an  endearing  tenderness  in  the  love  of  a  mother  to  a 
son  that  transcends  all  the  affections  of  the  heart.  It  is  neither 
to  be  chilled  by  selfishness,  nor  weakened  by  worthlessness,  nor 
stifled  by  ingratitude.  She  will  sacrifice  every  comfort  to  his 
convenience.  She  will  glory  in  his  fame,  and  exult  in  his  pros- 
perity. If  adversity  overtake  him,  he  will  be  dearer  to  her  by 
misfortune;  if  disgrace  settle  upon  his  name,  she  will  still 
love  and  cherish  him;  and  if  all  the  world  cast  him  off,  she 
will  be  all  the  world  to  him. 

Copied:  Sunday,  March  19,  1837;  28°  K,  62"  W. 


THE  SONG   OF  THE  FORGE.  87 


THE   SONG   OF   THE  FORGE. 

CLANG,  clang,  —  the  massive  anvils  ring ; 
Clang,  clang,  —  a  hundred  hammers  swing, 
Like  the  thunder  rattle  of  a  tropic  sky ; 
The  mighty  blows  still  multiply, 

Clang,  clang. 

Say,  brothers  of  the  dusky  brow, 
What  are  your  strong  arms  forging  now  ? 

Clang,  clang  —  we  forge  the  coulter  now, 
The  coulter  of  the  kindly  plough : 

Sweet  Mary  Mother,  bless  our  toil ; 
May  its  broad  furrow  still  unbind 
To  genial  rains,  to  sun  and  wind, 

The  most  benignant  soil. 

Clang,  clang  —  our  coulter's  course  shall  be 
On  many  a  sweet  and  sheltered  lea, 

By  many  a  streamlet's  silver  tide, 
Amidst  the  song  of  morning  birds, 
Amidst  the  low  of  sauntering  herds, 
Amidst  soft  breezes  which  do  stray 
Through  woodbine  hedges  and  sweet  May, 

Along  the  green  hill's  side. 

When  regal  autumn's  bounteous  hand 
With  widespread  glory  clothes  the  land, 

When  to  the  valleys,  from  the  brow 
Of  each  resplendent  slope,  is  rolled 
A  ruddy  sea  of  living  gold, 

We  bless,  we  bless  THE  PLOUGH. 


THE   SONG   OF   THE  FORGE. 

Clang,  clang  —  again,  my  mates,  what  glows 
Beneath  the  hammers'  potent  blows  ? 
Clang,  clang  —  we  forge  the  giant  chain, 
Which  bears  the  gallant  vessel's  strain 

'Midst  stormy  winds  and  adverse  tides  ; 
Secured  by  this,  the  good  ship  braves 
The  rocky  roadstead,  and  the  waves 

Which  thunder  on  her  sides. 

Anxious  no  more,  the  merchant  sees 
The  mist  drive  dark  before  the  breeze, 

The  storm  cloud  6n  the  hill ; 
Calmly  he  rests,  though  far  away 
In  boisterous  climes  his  vessels  lay, 

Reliant  on  our  skill. 

Say,  on  what  sands  these  links  shall  sleep, 
Fathoms  beneath  the  solemn  deep,  — 
By  A  flic's  pestilential  shore ; 
By  many  an  iceberg,  lone  and  hoar ; 
By  many  a  palmy  western  isle, 
Basking  in  Spring's  perpetual  smile ; 
By  stormy  Labrador. 

Say,  shall  they  feel  the  vessel  reel, 

The  crashing  broadside  make  reply  ; 
Or  else,  as  at  the  glorious  Nile, 
Hold  grappling  ships  that  strive  the  while 
For  death  or  victory  ? 

Hurrah  —  clang,  clang  —  once  more,  what  glows, 
Hark !  brothers  of  the  forge,  beneath 

The  iron  tempest  of  your  blows, 
The  furnace's  red  breath  ? 


THE   SONG   OF  THE  FORGE.  89 

Clang,  clang  —  a  burning  shower,  clear 
And  brilliant,  of  bright  sparks,  poured 

Around  and  up  in  the  dusky  air, 
As  our  hammers  forge  the  SWORD. 

The  sword  !  —  extreme  of  dread ;  yet  when 
Upon  the  freeman's  thigh  't  is  bound, 

While  for  his  altar  and  his  hearth, 

While  for  his  land  that  gave  him  birth, 
The  war  drums  roll,  the  trumpets  sound, 

How  sacred  is  it  then ! 

Whenever  for  the  truth  and  right 
It  flashes  in  the  van  of  fight,  — 
Whether  in  some  wild  mountain  pass, 
As  that  where  fell  Leonidas ; 
Or  on  some  sterile  plain  and  stern, 
A  Marston,  or  a  Bannockburn ; 
Or  amidst  crags  and  bursting  rills, 
The  Switzer's  Alps,  gray  Tyrol's  hills ; 
Or,  as  when  sunk  the  Armada's  pride, 
It  gleams  above  the  stormy  tide,  — 

Still,  still,  whene'er  the  battle  word 
Is  Liberty,  where  men  do  stand 
For  justice  and  their  native  land, 

Then  Heaven  bless  THE  SWORD  t 

ANONYMOUS, 
Calcutta  Quarterly  Magazine  and  Review. 

Copied:  Sunday,  March  19,  1837. 


90  LINES  IN  ANSWER    TO  A    QUESTION. 

LINES 

IN  ANSWER   TO   A   QUESTION. 

I  'LL  tell  thee  why  this  weary  world  rneseemeth 
But  as  the  visions  light  of  one  who  dreameth, 

Which  pass  like  clouds,  leaving  no  trace  behind  ; 
Why  this  strange  life,  so  full  of  sin  and  folly, 
In  me  awakes  no  melancholy, 

Nor  leaveth  shade  or  sadness  o'er  my  mind. 
'T  is  not  that  with  an  undiscerning  eye 
I  see  the  pageant  wild  go  dancing  by, 

Mistaking  that  which  falsest  is  for  true ; 
'T  is  not  that  pleasure  hath  entwined  me, 
'T  is  not  that  sorrow  hath  enshrined  me,  — 

I  bear  no  badge  of  roses  or  of  rue,  — 
But  in  the  inmost  chambers  of  my  soul 

There  is  another  world,  a  blessed  home, 
O'er  which  no  living  power  holdeth  control, 

Anigh  to  which  ill  things  do  never  come. 
There  shineth  the  glad  sunlight  of  clear  thought, 

With  hope  and  faith  holding  communion  high, 
Over  a  fragrant  land,  with  flowers  y-wrought, 

Where  gush  the  living  springs  of  poesy. 
There  speak  the  voices  that  I  love  to  hear, 

There  smile  the  glances  that  I  love  to  see, 
There  live  the  forms  of  those  my  soul  holds  dear, 

Forever  in  that  secret  world  with  me. 
They  who  have  walked  with  me  along  life's  way, 

And  severed  been  by  fortune's  adverse  tide, 
Who  ne'er  again  through  time's  uncertain  day, 

In  weal  or  woe,  may  wander  by  my  side,  — 


NOW.  91 

These  all  dwell  here ;  nor  those  whom  life  alone 

Divideth  from  me,  but  the  dead,  the  dead,  — " 
Those  weary  ones  who  to  their  rest  are  gone, 

Whose  footprints  from  the  earth  have  vanished, — 
Here  dwell  they  all :  and  here  within  this  world, 
Like  light  within  a  summer  sun-cloud  furled, 

My  spirit  dwells  ;  therefore  this  evil  life, 
With  all  its  gilded  snares  and  fair  deceivings, 
Its  wealth,  its  want,  its  pleasures,  and  its  grievings, 

Nor  frights,  nor  frets  me,  by  its  idle  strife. 
0  thou !  who  readest  of  thy  courtesy, 
Whoe'er  thou  art,  I  wish  the  same  to  thee. 

MRS.  KEMBLE. 

Copied  :  Sunday,  March  26,  1837,  on  board  the.  "  Luconia,"  edge  of  the  Gulf, 
sixty  miles  from  "  the  Cape  of  Storms,"  HATTERAS.     S.  P.  C. 


NOW. 

EISE  !  for  the  day  is  passing, 

And  you  lie  dreaming  on  ; 
The  others  have  buckled  their  armor, 

And  forth  to  the  fight  are  gone : 
A  place  in  the  ranks  awaits  you, 

Each  man  has  some  part  to  play ; 
The  past  and  the  future  are  nothing 

In  the  face  of  the  stern  to-day. 

Kise  from  your  dreams  of  the  future,  • 
Of  gaining  some  hard-fought  field ; 

Of  storming  some  airy  fortress, 
Or  bidding  some  giant  yield. 


92  ONE  BY  ONE. 

Your  future  has  deeds  of  glory, 

Of  honor  (God  grant  it  may) ; 
But  your  arm  will  never  be  stronger, 

Or  the  need  so  great  as  to-day.- 

Else  !  if  the  past  detains  you, 

Her  sunshine  and  storms  forget ; 
No  chains  so  unworthy  to  hold  you 

As  those  of  a  vain  regret : 
Sad  or  bright,  she  is  lifeless  ever ; 

Cast  her  phantom  arms  away, 
Nor  look  back  save  to  learn  the  lesson 

Of  a  nobler  strife  to-day. 

Eise  !  for  the  day  is  passing. 

The  sound  that  you  scarcely  hear 
Is  the  enemy  marching  to  battle ; 

Arise,  for  the  foe  is  here. 
Stay  not  to  sharpen  your  weapons, 

Or  the  hour  will  strike  at  last, 
When  from  dreams  of  a  coming  battle 

You  may  wake  to  find  it  past. 

ADELAIDE  A.  PROCTER. 

Copied  from  a  newspaper,  NAUSHON,  Aug.  5,  1857.     Distributed  widely  as  a 
recruiting-song  during  the  Rebellion. 


ONE  BY   ONE. 

ONE  by  one  the  sands  are  flowing, 
One  by  one  the  moments  fall ; 

Some  are  coming,  some  are  going ; 
Do  not  strive  to  grasp  them  all. 


ONE  BY  ONE.  93 

One  by  one  thy  duties  wait  thee, 
Let  thy  whole  strength  go  to  each  ; 

Let  no  future  dreams  elate  thee, 
Learn  thou  first  what  these  can  teach. 

One  by  one  (bright  gifts  from  heaven) 

Joys  are  sent  thee  here  below ; 
Take  them  readily  when  given, 

Ready  too  to  let  them  go. 

One  by  one  thy  griefs  shall  meet  thee, 

Do  'not  fear  an  armed  band ; 
One  will  fade  as  others  greet  thee, 

Shadows  passing  through  the  land. 

Do  not  look  at  life's  long  sorrow, 
See  how  small  each  moment's  pain  ; 

God  will  help  thee  for  to-morrow, 
So  each  day  begin  again. 

Every  hour  that  fleets  so  slowly 

Has  its  task  to  do  or  bear ; 
Luminous  the  crown,  and  holy, 

When  each  gem  is  set  with  care. 

Do  not  linger  with  regretting, 

Or  for  passing  hours  despond, 
Nor,  the  daily  toil  forgetting, 

Look  too  eagerly  beyond. 

Hours  are  golden  links,  God's  token, 
Reaching  heaven  ;  but  one  by  one 
Take  them,  lest  the  chain  be  broken 
Ere  the  pilgrimage  be  done. 

ADELAIDE  A.  PROCTER. 
Copied  from  a  newspaper,  NAUSHOX,  Aug.  5,  1857. 


94        TO  THE  FIRST  OF  THE  SERAPHIM,  —  DEA  TH. 


TO   THE  FIRST   OF   THE  SEEAPHIM,  —  DEATH. 

STAKS,  —  radiant  stars, 
Ye  that  troop  forth  in  your  diamond  cars, 

Who  shall  declare 
What  bright  things  bless  your  dwelling  fair  ? 

"Tis  I;  'tis!." 

0  Ssraph,  dost  thou  deign  reply  ? 
Yes,  I  know  the  tones  of  that  voice  entrancing, 

And  I  turn  to  meet 

Its  whispering  sweet, 

And  to  catch,  if  it  may  be,  thy  balmy  breath, 
And  to  bask  in  the  light  from  thy  clear  eyes  glancing ; 

For  the  voice  is  thine, 
Thou  spirit  of  essence  the  most  divine, 
Guide  to  the  better  land,  —  benignant  Death. 

Flowers,  —  gem-like  flowers, 
Ye  light  earth's  else  benighted  bowers ; 
But  who  shall  tell  the  charm  that  in  your  deep  cups  dwell  ? 

"'Tis  I;  'tis!" 

Comes  on  the  zephyr  the  prompt  reply. 
But,  violet,  't  is  not  thy  perfumed  sigh, 
And  't  is  not,  rose,  thy  fragrant  breath  ; 

But  thine,  oh,  thine, 
Thou  spirit  of  essence  the  most  divine, 
Best  friend. and  fairest  hope,  —  benignant  Death. 

Moon,  —  spectral  moon, 
Gliding  through  pale  night's  haunted  noon, 
Who  shall  withdraw  the  veil 
That  shrouds  thy  being's  law  ? 


TO  THE  FIRST  OF  THE  SERAPHIM,  —  DEATH,  95 

"  This  hand,  this  hand." 
Again,  again  those  accents  bland, 
But 't  is  not  the  music  of  worshipping  spheres 
That  comes  to  bless  thy  votary's  ears, 
And  't  is  not  the  voice  of  a  sinking  star, 
Pouring  in  praise  its  latest  breath, 
But  a  voice  of  import  dearer  far, 

Thine,  yes,  thine, 

Thou  spirit  of  essence  the  most  divine, 
Best  friend,  and  fairest  hope,  —  benignant  Death. 

Waves,  —  glittering  waves, 
Ye  that  lie  soft  o'er  a  myriad  graves, 

How  shall  I  know 
What  ye  conceal  in  your  depths  below  ? 

"  Through  me,  through  me," 
In  music  floats  o'er  the  sounding  sea ; 

But  't  is  not  thou, 

Bright  southland  breeze,  that  art  whispering  now, 
Not  thou  that  through  the  bosom  stealing 
Wakest  the  troubled  depths  of  feeling,  — 
'T  is  a  warmer,  a  purer,  a  dearer  breath, 

Thine,  yes,  thine, 

Thou  spirit  of  essence  the  most  divine, 
Guide  to  the  better  land,  —  serenest  Death. 

MRS.  FOSTER. 

Written  in  ROME  by  a  friend  of  Mrs.  AMES,  one  of  Mrs.  FOLLEN'S  English 
friends,  and  sent  by  her  to  Mrs.  FOLLEN.     Copied:  Sept.  28,  1837. 


96  THE  RIVER. 


WHAT   STEANGE,  DEEP   SECEET. 

WHAT  strange,  deep  secret  dost  thou  hold,  0  Death, 

To  hallow  all  thou  claimest  for  thine  own  ? 

That  which  the  open  book  could  never  teach 

The  closed  one  whispers  ;  so  we  stand  alone 

By  one  how  more  alone  than  we ! 

And  strive  to  comprehend  the  passion  of  that  peace. 

In  vain  our  thoughts  would  wind  within 

The  heart  of  that  great  mystery  of  release, 

Baptism  of  death,  which  steepest  infant  years 

In  grace  of  calm  that  saints  might  hope  to  win, 

And  sets  again  the  seal  of  childhood  there. 

Our  line  of  life  in  vain  would  sound  thy  sea ; 

Yet  what  we  seek  to  know,  we  soon  shall  be  ! 

ANONYMOUS. 
Copied:  September,  1837. 


THE   EIVEE. 

EIVER,  river,  little  river, 

Bright  you  sparkle  on  your  way, 
O'er  the  yellow  pebbles  dancing, 
Through  the  flowers  and  foliage  glancing, 

Like  a  child  at  play. 

Eiver,  river,  swelling  river, 

On  you  rush  o'er  rough  and  smooth ; 
Louder,  faster,  brawling,  leaping 
Over  rocks,  by  rose-banks  sweeping, 

Like  impetuous  youth. 


THE  DEAD  DOG.  97 

River,  river,  brimming  river, 

Broad  and  deep  and  still  as  time, 

Seeming  still,  yet  still  in  motion, 

Tending  onward  to  the  ocean, 
Just  like  mortal  prime. 

River,  river,  rapid  river, 

Swifter  now  you  slip  away ; 
Swift  and  silent  as  an  arrow, 
Through  a  channel  dark  and  narrow, 

Like  life's  closing  day. 

River,  river,  headlong  river, 

Down  you  dash  into  the  sea,  — 
Sea  that  line  hath  never  sounded, 
Sea  that  voyage  hath  never  rounded, 
Like  eternity. 

MBS.  SOUTHET. 
Copied  :  MILTON,  Aug.  10,  1860. 


THE  DEAD  DOO. 

"Poor  dog,  he  was  faithful  and  kind,  to  be  sure, 
And  never  forsook  me,  for  all  I  was  poor  ; 
But  he  died  at  my  feet  on  a  cold  winter's  day, 
And  I  played  a  lament  for  my  poor  dog  Tray." 

CAMPBELL. 

UP,  spaniel,  —  the  hunter  is  winding  his  horn 
In  the  green-wood ;  the  winged  echoes  float 

'Mid  the  bright-bannered  clouds  like  the  heralds  of  morn  : 
Hear'st  thou  not  the  wild  choir,  —  hear'st  thou  not  ? 

Oh,  it  was  not  thy  wont  with  the  sluggard  to  lie 

When  the  dingles  were  voiced  with  the  shrill  hunting-cry. 

7 


98  THE  DEAD  DOG. 

Up,  spaniel,  —  the  sunbeam  hath  stolen  on  thy  lair 

With 'a  smile  that  rebuketh  thy  sleep, 
The  west  wind  is  lifting  thy  shining  brown  hair, 

Yet  thy  slumber  is  changeless  and  deep  ;' 
Can  the  sunbeam  not  kindle  thine  eye  as  of  old 
With  delight,  that  its  glance  is  so  dreamless  and  cold  ? 

The  west  wind,  —  oh,  list  to  the  spell  which  it  brings 
From  the  hills  and  the  green  forest  bowers, 

Where  the  wood  birds  sit  laving  their  beautiful  wings 
In  the  dew-drops  that  fill  the  wild  flowers, 

And  the  sun-bee's  glad  roundelay  bids  thee  rejoice  : 

Up,  up,  honest  heart,  with  thy  welcoming  voice ! 

You  stir  not ;  but  I  have  a  charm  beyond  all 
That  the  shrill  hunting  clarion  could  be, 

Or  the  soft  sunny  smiles  on  thy  bright  locks  that  fall, 
Or  the  wind's  wizard  numbers  to  thee, 

Or  the  wood-pigeon's  murmurs,  the  bee's  madrigals  : 

Up,  Roswall,  't  is  she  whom  thou  lovest  that  calls. 

'T  is  she  whom  thou  lovest,  —  her  voice  was  a  spell 

That  no  slumber  was  wont  to  disown, 
And  thy  heart  went  as  free  as  some  blithe  marriage  bell, 

When  her  grateful  caresses  were  won ; 
But  now  —  oh,  what  change  has  come  over  that  heart 
When  her  gentlest  caress  can  no  pleasure  Impart ! 

There 's  a  step  on  the  threshold,  —  the  stranger  is  come ; 

Thou  art  stretched  his  dull  shadow  beneath. 
He  has  spoke ;  but  thy  quick,  ringing  challenge  is  dumb, 

For  the  sentinel's  slumber  is  death. 
No  larum  can  rouse  thee ;  no  joy  of  the  past 
Can  give  light  to  thy  sleeping,  —  the  longest  and  last. 


-EPITAPH  ON  A    SLAVE.  99 

But  the  merry  green  leaves  of  the  spring-time  shall  wave 

Like  some  bonny  bird's  wings  o'er  thy  bones, 
And  the  stars  and  the  sunlight  will  brood  o'er  thy  grave 

With  a  smile  that  had  gladdened  thee  once ; 
But  the  pencil  of  memory  with  holier  part 
Hath  engraven  thine  epitaph  deep  on  my  heart. 

A.  L.  PICKERING, 
Spirit  of  the  Times,  May  13,  1840. 


EPITAPH   ON   A  SLAVE   IN   OLD   "BURIAL  HILL, 
CONCORD,  MASS. 

HEKE  lies  the  body  of  JOHN  JACK, 

A  native  of  Africa, 

Who  died  March  20th,  1773, 

Aged  about  sixty  years. 

God  wills  us  free ; 
Man  wills  us  slaves. 
I  will  as  God  wills ; 
God's  will  be  done. 

Though  born  in  a  land  of  slavery, 

He  was  born  free  ; 
Though  he  lived  in  a  land  of  freedom, 

He  lived  a  slave, 

Till  by  his  honest,  though  stolen  labors 
He  earned  the  source  of  slavery, 
Which  gave  him  his  freedom, 
Though  not  long  before  death, 

The  great  tyrant, 
Gave  him  his  final  emancipation, 


100  WHY? 

And  placed  him  on  a  footing  with  kings. 

Though  a  slave  to  vice, 
He  practised  those  virtues 
Without  which  kings  are  but  slaves. 
Supposed  to  have  been  written  by  Parson  BLISS,  of  CONCORD. 


WHY? 

ANSWER   TO    THE    QUESTION    WHY    I    WISH   TO    RETURN    TO 
NEW   ENGLAND. 

You  wonder  why  I  still  would  seek 

To  quit  this  land  of  yours, 
And  count  with  sorrow  every  week 

My  pilgrimage  endures. 
You  wonder  1  should  wish  to  fly, 

And  leave  such  scenes  behind  ; 
But  if  I  pass  their  beauties  by, 

Oh,  think  not  I  am  blind  ! 
There  is  the  beauty  for  the  eye, 

Another  for  the  mind. 
Your  skies  may  wear  a  deeper  hue, 

Your  woods  a  richer  green, 
And  brighter  spring-flowers  bloom  for  you, 

Than  I  have  ever  seen  ; 
But  in  our  rugged  land  to  me 
There  is  a  moral  scenery, 

A  sense  of  what  hath  been, 
That  makes  its  homeliness  more  dear 
Than  all  the  beauty  that  is  here ; 
For  there  affection's  silken  chain 

First  linked  me  to  the  earth, 
There  have  I  wept  in  bitterest  pain, 

And  laughed  in  lightest  mirth. 


THE  LATE  DEPUTATION  TO  PARIS.  101 

There  is  my  oivn,  own  home. 
And  where  I  first  beheld  the  day, 
Still  let  me  tread  my  shaded  way ; 

And  when  the  Angel  comes, 
And  the  stern  mandate  bids  me  die, 
Though  sorrow  closed  the  lifted  eye, 

Yet  it  were  joy  to  know, 
That  when  my  ashes  sleep  below, 
New  England's  flower  will  o'er  me  blow, 
Above  me  drift  New  England  snow, 

And  bend  her  azure  sky. 

JAMES  H.  PERKINS. 


THE   LATE  DEPUTATION   TO  PARIS. 

"THE   MERCHANT   PRINCE." 

THE  Merchant  Prince  of  England, 

What  a  glorious  name  he  bears  ! 
No  minstrel  tongue  has  ever  sung 

The  deeds  the  hero  dares. 
Enlist  that  soldier  in  your  Cause, 

No  dangers  bar  his  way, 
But  gallantly  he  draws  his  —  check, 

If  the  Cause  will  only  pay. 

Where  Freedom  waves  her  banners, 

He  stands,  her  champion  bold  ; 
The  noble  English  Merchant  Prince 

For  her  unlocks  his  gold ; 
For  her  the  Prince's  glowing  pulse 

With  generous  ardor  thrills, 
If  only  sure  that  Freedom 

Will  duly  meet  her  bills. 


102  THE  LATE  DEPUTATION  TO  PARIS. 

When  scarce  the  gory  bayonet 

Upholds  the  Despot's  throne, 
The  Merchant  Prince,  all  chivalry, 

Springs  forward  with  a  loan ; 
And  vain  a  nation's  cry  to  scare 

That  dauntless  friend  in  need, 
Provided  only  that  the  loan 

Is  safely  guaranteed. 

See  where  a  sovereign's  crown  rewards 

A  venturous  Parvenu, 
Crouches  the  Merchant  Prince  to  kiss 

His  royal  brother's  shoe. 
For  trampled  law,  for  broken  vow, 

No  doit  his  Princeship  cares, 
If  that  salute  can  raise,  an  eighth, 

His  gain  on  railway  shares. 

You,  'Christian  of  the  slop-shop, 

And  you,  usurious  Jew, 
Assert  your  royal  blood,  for  both     , 

Are  Merchant  Princes  too. 
One  common  creed  unites  you, 

Devout  professors  of  it, 
"  There  's  but  one  Allah,  —  Mammon, 

And  Cent  per  Cent 's  his  profit." 

What !  blame  some  petty  huckster 
That  his  vote  is  bought  and  sold  ; 

What !  chide  some  wretched  juryman 
That  he  blinked  at  guilt,  for  gold ; 

What !  whip  some  crouching  mendicant, 
Who  fawned  that  he  might  eat  — 

With  the  Merchant  Prince  of  England 

At  the  Third  Napoleon's  feet  ? 

ANONYMOUS,  Punch. 


THE  FIRE-FIEND.  103 

THE   FIRE-FIEND. 

A  NIGHTMARE. 

IN  the  deepest  death  of  midnight,  while  the  sad  and  solemn  swell 
Still  was  floating,  faintly  echoed  from  the  forest  chapel  bell,  — 
Faintly,  falteringly  floating  o'er  the  sable  waves  of  air 
That  were  through  the  midnight  rolling,  chafed  and  billowy  with 

the  tolling,  — 

In  my  chamber  I  lay  dreaming  by  the  firelight's  fitful  gleaming, 
And  my  dreams  were  dreams  foreshadowed  on  a  heart  fore- 
doomed to  care. 

On  the  red  hearth's  reddest  centre,  from  a  blazing  knot  of  oak, 
Seemed  to  gibe  and  grin  this  phantom,  when  in  terror  I  awoke. 

Then,  as  in  Death's  seeming  shadow,  in  the  icy  pall  of  Fear, 
I  lay  stricken,  came  a  hoarse  and  hideous  murmur  to  my  ear,  — 
Came  a  murmur  like  the  murmur  of  assassins  in  their  sleep, 
Muttering,  "Higher!  higher  !  higher!  I  am  Demon  of  the  Fire; 
I  am  Arch-Fiend  of  the  Fire,  and  each  blazing  roof  's  my  pyre, 
And  my  sweetest  incense  is  the  blood  and  tears  my  victims 
weep." 

Through  my  ivy-fretted  casements  filtered  in  a  tremulous  note 
From  the  tall  and  stately  linden,  where  a  robin  swelled  his 

throat,  — 

Querulous,  Quaker-breasted  robin,  calling  quaintly  for  his  mate  ! 
Then  I  started   up,  unbidden,  from   my  slumber,  nightmare- 
ridden, 

With  the  memory  of  that  fire-demon  in  my  central  fire, 
On  my  eye's  interior  mirror  like  the  shadow  of  a  fate ! 


104  THERE   WAS  A   LISTENING  FEAR. 

Ah !  the  fiendish  fire  had  smouldered  to  a  white  and  formless 

heap, 

And  no  knot  of  oak  was  flaming  as  it  flamed  upon  my  sleep ; 
But  around  its  very  centre,  where  the  demon  face  had  shone, 
Forked  shadows  seemed  to  linger,  pointing  as  with  spectral 

finger 

To  a  Bible,  massive,  golden,  on  a  tahle  carved  and  olden, 
And  I  bowed  and  said,  "  All  power  is  of  God,  of  God  alone." 

POE. 

We'  heard  EDGAR  A.  POE  recite  "  The  Raven  "  at  Mr.  RODERICK  SEDGWICK'S, 
NEW  YORK,  with  great  effect ;  but  we  prefer  this  specimen  to  the  later  one. 


I'LL  HASTE  TO   QUAFF   MY  WINE. 

ANACREONTIC. 

TO-DAY  I  '11  haste  to  quaff  my  wine, 
As  if  to-morrow  ne'er  should  shine ; 
But  if  to-morrow  comes,  —  why,  then, 
1 11  haste  to  quaff  my  wine  again. 

For  Death  may  come  with  brow  unpleasant, 
May  come  when  least  we  wish  him  present, 
And  beckon  to  the  sable  shore, 
And  grimly  bid  us  —  drink  no  more ! 

ANONYMOUS. 

THEEE  WAS   A   LISTENING  FEAR. 

THERE  was  a  listening  fear  in  her  regard', 

As  if  calamity  had  but  begun ; 

As  if  the  vanward  cloud  of  evil  days 

Had  spent  their  malice,  and  the  sullen  roar 

Was  with  its  stored  thunder  laboring  up. 

C.  F.  F. 
MILTON  HILL. 


SENT   TO  HEAVEN.  105 


W.  M.  HUNT'S  FRENCH   SONG. 

DEKRIERE  chez  vous  il  y  a  ,Jrim  vert  bocage 
Ou  lea  rossignol^t  y  chantait  tous  les  jours, 
Et  la  il  dit  son  charmant  langage, 
"  Les  Amoureux  sont  malheureux  toujours, 
Les  Amoureux  sont  malheureux  toujours." 

La  nos  detix  noms  sont  ecrits  sur  un  frene, 
La  sur  un  frene  nos  deux  noms  sont  graves ; 
Temps  a  efface  nos  noms  sur  le  frene, 
Mais  dans  nos  coeurs  temps  les  a  conserves, 
Mais  dans  nos  creurs  temps  les  a  conserves. 

ANONYMOUS. 


SENT   TO   HEAVEN. 

I  HAD  a  message  to  send  her, 

To  her  whom  my  soul  loved  best ; 

But  I  had  my  task  to  finish, 

And  she  had  gone  home  to  rest,  — 

To  rest  in  the  far  bright  heaven, 
Oh,  so  far  away  from  here  ! 

It  was  vain  to  speak  to  my  darling, 
For  I  knew  she  could  not  hear. 

I  had  a  message  to  send  her, 
So  tender  and  true  and  sweet ; 

I  longed  for  an  angel  to  bear  it, 
And  lay  it  down  at  her  feet. 


106  SENT   TO  HEAVEN. 

I  placed  it  one  summer  evening 
On  a  little  white  cloud's  breast; 

But  it -faded  in  golden  splendor, 
And  died  in  the  crimson  west.  • 

I  gave  it  the  lark,  next  morning, 
And  I  watched  it  soar  and  soar ; 

But  its  pinions  grew  faint  and  weary, 
And  it  fluttered  to  earth  once  more. 

To  the  heart  of  a  rose  I  told  it ; 

And  the  perfume,  sweet  and  rare, 
Growing  faint  on  the  blue  bright  ether, 

Was  lost  in  the  balmy  air. 

I  laid  it  upon  a  censer, 

And  I  saw  the  incense  rise ; 

But  its  clouds  of  rolling  silver 

Could  not  reach  the  far  blue  skies. 

I  cried  in  my  passionate  longing : 
"  Has  the  earth  no  angel  friend 

Who  will  carry  my  love  the  message 
That  my  heart  desires  to  send  ? " 

Then  I  heard  a  strain  of  music, 
So  mighty,  so  pure,  so  clear, 

That  my  very  sorrow  was  silent, 
And  my  heart  stood  still  to  hear. 

And  I  felt  in  my  soul's  deep  yearning 
At  last  the  sure  answer  stir,  — 

"  The  music  will  go  up  to  heaven, 
And  carry  my  thought  to  her." 


SHALL    WE  EVER  MEET  AGAIN?  107 

It  rose  in  harmonious  rushing 

Of  mingled  voices  and  strings, 
And  I  tenderly  laid  my  message 

On  the  music's  outspread  wings. 

I  heard  it  float  further  and  further, 
In  sound  more  perfect  than  speech ; 

Further  than  sight  can  follow,  — 
Further  than  soul  can  reach. 

And  I  know  that  at  last  my  message 
Has  passed  through  the  golden  gate ; 

So  my  heart  is  no  longer  restless, 
And  I  am  content  to  wait. 

A.  A.  P.,  Cornhill  Magazine. 


SHALL  WE  EVER   MEET  AGAIN? 

SHALL  we  ever  meet  again 

In  the  woodland  by  the  sea  ? 
Will  the  moment  bringing  pain 
To  the  heart  and  to  the  brain, 

Come  again  to  thee  and  me  ? 
Shall  we  hear  again  the  moaning 

Of  the  ocean  to  the  shore, 
Like  the  ever  low  intoning 

Of  a  celebrant,  Lenore  ? 
Shall  we  ever  meet  again  ? 

Ah  me,  that  Joy  should  borrow 
A  thorn  to  wound  the  heart 

From  the  pale  red  rose  of  Sorrow ! 
Adieu  !  for  we  must  part. 


108  THE   STORM. 

We  may  never  meet  again 
«         In  tb.e  woodland  by  the  sea ; 
But  the  song  and  the  refrain 
Which  we  sang  beside  the  main  • 

Will  be  ever  dear  to  me. 
There  is  no  sun  that  shineth 

But  hath  its  spot  of  shade;' 
The  brightest  day  declineth, 

And  sweetest  roses  fade. 
We  may  never  meet  again. 

Ah  me,  that  Love  should  borrow 
A  thorn  to  wound  the  heart 

From  the  pale-red  rose  of  Sorrow ! 

Adieu !  for  we  must  part. 

EDWARD  CAPERN. 

THE   STOEM. 

CEASE,  rude  Boreas,  blustering  railer ! 

List,  ye  landsmen  all,  to  me ; 
Messmates,  hear  a  brother  sailor 

Sing  the  dangers  of  the  sea : 
From  bounding  billows,  first  in  motion, 

When  the  distant  whirlwinds  rise, 
To  the  tempest-troubled  ocean, 

Where  the  seas  contend  with  skies. 

Hark !  the  boatswain  hoarsely  bawling, 

By  topsail  sheets  and  haulyards  stand ! 
Down  top-gallants  quick  be  hauling ! 

Down  your  staysails,  —  hand,  boys,  hand ! 
Now  it  freshens,  set  the  braces, 

The  lee  topsail-sheets  let  go : 
Luff,  boys,  luff !  don't  make  wry  faces, 

Up  your  topsails  nimbly  clew. 


THE   STORM.  109 

The  topsail-yards  point  to  the  wind,  boys, 

See  all  clear  to  reef  each  course ; 
Let  the  foresheet  go,  —  don't  mind,  boys, 

Though  the  weather  should  prove  worse. 
Fore  and  aft  the  spritsail-yard  get, 

Eeef  the  mizzen,  see  all  clear ; 
Hands  up,  each  preventer-brace  set ! 

Man  the  fore-yards  !     Cheer,  lads,  cheer ! 

Now  the  dreadful  thunder  roaring,  ' 

Peal  on  peal  contending  clash, 
On  our  heads  fierce  rain  falls  pouring, 

In  our  eyes  blue  lightnings  flash. 
One  wide  water  all  around  us, 

All  above  us  one  black  sky ; 
Different  deaths  at  once  surround  us,  — 

Hark !  what  means  that  dreadful  cry  ? 

The  foremast 's  gone !  cries  every  tongue  out, 

O'er  the  lee,  twelve  feet  'bove  deck : 
A  leak  beneath  the  chest-tree  's  sprung  out,  — 

Call  all  hands  to  clear  the  wreck. 
Quick !  the  lanyards  cut  to  pieces  : 

Come,  my  hearts,  be  stout  and  bold ! 
Plumb  the  well,  —  the  leak  increases, 

Four  feet  water  in  the  hold ! 

While  o'er  the  ship  wild  waves  are  beating, 

We  our  wives  and  children  mourn : 
Alas !  from  hence  there 's  no  retreating ; 

Alas  !  from  hence  there 's  no  return. 
Still  the  leak  is  gaining  on  us, 

Both  chain-pumps  are  choked  below ; 
Heaven  have  mercy  here  upon  us ! 

For  only  that  can  save  us  now.  / 


110  DIRGE    OF  ALARIC   THE    VISIGOTH. 

O'er  the  lee-beam  is  the  land,  boys  ! 

Let  the  guns  o'er  board  be  thrown : 
-To  the  pump  come  every  hand,  boys ! 

See,  our  mizzen-mast  is  gone  ! 
The  leak  we  Ve  found,  it  cannot  pour  fast : 

We  Ve  lightened  her  a  foot  or  more ; 
Up  and  rig  a  jury  foremast,  — 

She  rights  !  she  rights,  boys  !  we  're  off  shore  ! 

G.  A.  STEVENS. 
Sung  by  Dr.  JOHN  JENNISON  on  the  "  Lintin." 


DIRGE   OF  ALARIC    THE   VISIGOTH. 

Alaric  stormed  and  spoiled  the  city  of  Rome,  and  was  afterwards  buried  in  the 
channel  of  the  river  Busentius,  the  water  of  which  had  been  diverted  from  its 
course  that  the  body  might  be  interred. 

WHEN  I  am  dead,  no  pageant  train 
Shall  waste  their  sorrows  at  my  bier, 

Nor  worthless  pomp  of  homage  vain 
Stain  it  with  hypocritic  tear ; 

For  I  will  die  as  I  did  live, 

Nor  take  the  boon  I  cannot  give. 

Ye  shall  not  raise  a  marble  bust 

Upon  the  spot  where  I  repose ; 
Ye  shall  not  fawn  before  my  dust, 

In  hollow  circumstance  of  woes  : 
Nor  sculptured  clay,  with  lying  breath, 
Insult  the  clay  that  moulds  beneath. 

Ye  shall  not  pile,  with  servile  toil, 
Your  monuments  upon  my  breast, 

Nor  yet  within  the  common  soil 

Lay  down  the  wreck  of  power  to  rest, 


DIRGE   OF  ALARIC   THE    VISIGOTH.  Ill 

Where  man  can  boast  that  he  has  trod 
On  him  that  was  "  the  scourge  of  God." 

But  ye  the  mountain  stream  shall  turn, 

And  lay  its  secret  channel  bare, 
And  hollow,  for  your  sovereign's  urn, 

A  resting-place  forever  there  : 
Then  bid  its  everlasting  springs 
Flow  back  upon  the  King  of  Kings ; 
And  never  be  the  secret  said, 
Until  the  deep  give  up  his  dead. 

My  gold  and  silver  ye  shall  fling 

Back  to  the  clods  that  gave  them  birth,  — 

The  captured  crowns  of  many  a  king, 
The  ransom  of  a  conquered  earth ; 

For,  e'en  though  dead,  will  I  control 

The  trophies  of  a  capitol. 

But  when  beneath  the  mountain  tide 
Ye  've  laid  your  monarch  down  to  rot, 

Ye  shall  not  rear  upon  its  side 

Pillar  or  mound  to  mark  the  spot ; 

For  long  enough  the  world  has  shook 

Beneath  the  terrors  of  my  look, 

And  now  that  I  have  run  my  race, 

The  astonished  realms  shall  rest  a  space. 

My  course  was  like  a  river  deep, 

And  from  the  northern  hills  I  burst, 

Across  the  world  in  wrath  to  sweep, 
And  where  I  went  the  spot  was  cursed ; 

Nor  blade  of  grass  again  was  seen 

Where  Alaric  and  his  hosts  had  been. 


112  DIRGE   OF  ALARIC   THE    VISIGOTH. 

See  how  their  haughty  barriers  fail 
Beneath  the  terror  of  the  Goth  ; 

Their  iron-breasted  legions  quail 
Before  my  ruthless  sabaoth ; 

And  low  the  queen  of  empires  kneels, 

And  grovels  at  my  chariot  wheels. 

Not  for  myself  did  I  ascend 

In  judgment  my  triumphal  car; 

'T  was  God  alone  on  high  did  send 
The  avenging  Scythian  to  the  war, 

To  shake  abroad,  with  iron  hand, 

The  appointed  scourge  of  his  command. 

With  iron  hand  that  scourge  I  reared 
O'er  guilty  king  and  guilty  realm ; 
Destruction  was  the  ship  I  steered, 

And  vengeance  sat  upon  the  helm, 
When,  launched  in  fury  on  the  flood, 
I  ploughed  my  way  through  seas  of  blood, 
And  in  the  stream  their  hearts  had  spilt 
Washed  out  the  long  arrears  of  guilt. 

Across  the  everlasting  Alp 

I  poured  the  torrent  of  my  powers, 
And  feeble  Csesars  shrieked  for  help 

In  vain  within  their  seven-hilled  towers 
I  quenched  in  blood  the  brightest  gem 
That  glittered  in  their  diadem, 
And  struck  a  darker,  deeper  dye 
In  the  purple  of  their  majesty, 
And  bade  my  northern  banners  shine 
Upon  the  conquered  Palatine. 

My  course  is  run,  my  errand  done : 
I  go  to  him  from  whom'  I  came  ; 


THE  AMERICAN  EAGLE.  113 

But  never  yet  shall  set  the  sun 

Of  glory  that  adorns  my  name ; 
And  Koman  hearts  shall  long  be  sick, 
When  men  shall  think  of  Alaric. 

My  course  is  run,  my  errand  done : 

But  darker  ministers  of  fate, 
Impatient  round  the  eternal  throne 

And  in  the  caves  of  vengeance,  wait ; 
And  soon  mankind  shall  blench  away 
Before  the  name  of  Attila. 

EDWARD  EVERETT. 


THE  AMERICAN   EAGLE. 

THERE  's  a  fierce  gray  bird,  with  a  bending  beak, 

With  an  angry  eye,  and  a  startling  shriek, 

That  nurses  her  brood  where  the  cliff  flowers  blow, 

On  the  precipice  top,  in  perpetual  snow  ; 

That  sits  where  the  air  is  shrill  and  bleak, 

On  the  splintered  point  of  a  shivered  peak, 

Bald-headed  and  stripped,  like  a  vulture  torn 

In  wind  and  strife,  her  feathers  worn, 

And  ruffled  and  stained,  while  loose  and  bright 

Eound  her  serpent  neck,  that  is  writhing  and  bare, 

Is  a  crimson  collar  of  gleaming  hair, 
Like  the  crest  of  a  warrior,  thinned  in  fight, 

And  shorn,  and  bristling :  see  her,  where 

She  sits  in  the  glow  of  the  sun-bright  air, 
With  wing  half  poised,  and  talons  bleeding, 

And  kindling  eye,  as  if  her  prey 

Had  suddenly  been  snatched  away, 
While  she  was  tearing  it  and  feeding. 
8 


114  THE  AMERICAN  EAGLE. 

Above  the  dark  torrent,  above  the  bright  stream, 

The  voice  may  be  heard 

Of  the  Thunderer's  bird 

Calling  out  to  her  God  in  a  clear,  wild  scream, 
As  she  mounts  to  his  throne  and  unfolds  in  his  beam ; 
While  her  young  are  laid  out  in  his  rich,  red  blaze, 
And  their  winglets  are  fledged  in  his  hottest  rays. 
Proud  bird  of  the  cliff,  where  the  barren  yew  springs, 
Where  the  sunshine  stays,  and  the  wind-harp  sings, 
She  sits,  unapproachable,  pluming  her  wings. 
She  screams,  —  she 's  away,  —  over  hill-top  and  flood, 
Over  valley  and  rock,  over  mountain  and  wood, 
That  bird  is  abroad  in  the  van  of  her  brood. 
'T  is  the  bird  of  our  banner,  the  free  bird  that  braves, 
When  the  battle  is  there,  all  the  wrath  of  the  waves  ; 
That  dips  her  pinions  in  the  sun's  first  gush ; 
Drinks  his  meridian  blaze,  his  farewell  flush  ; 
Sits  amid  stirring  stars,  and  bends  her  beak, 
Like  the  slipped  falcon,  when  her  piercing  shriek 
Tells  that  she  stoops  upon  her  cleaving  wing, 
To  drink  at  some  new  victim's  clear,  red  spring. 
That  monarch  bird,  she  slumbers  in  the  night 
Upon  the  lofty  air-peak's  utmost  height ; 
Or  sleeps  upon  the  wing,  amid  the  ray 
Of  steady,  cloudless,  everlasting  day  ; 
Rides  with  the  Thunderer  in  his  blazing  march, 
And  bears  his  lightnings  o'er  yon  boundless  arch ; 
Soars  wheeling  through  the  storm,  and  screams  away, 
Where  the  young  pinions  of  the  morning  play ; 
Broods  with  her  arrows  in  the  hurricane ; 
Bears  her  green  laurel  o'er  the  starry  plain, 
And  sails  around  the  skies  and  o'er  the  rolling  deeps, 
With  still  unwearied  wing,  and  eye  that  never  sleeps. 

NEAL. 


NEW  ENGLAND.  115 


NEW  ENGLAND. 

HAIL  to  the  land  whereon  we  tread, 

Our  fondest  boast ! 
The  sepulchre  of  mighty  dead, 
The  truest  hearts  that  ever  bled, 
Who  sleep  on  glory's  brightest  bed, 

A  fearless  host : 

No  slave  is  here ;  our  unchained  feet 
Walk  freely  as  the  waves  that  beat 
Our  coast. 

There  is  no  other  land  like  thee, 

No  dearer  shore : 
Thou  art  the  shelter  of  the  free ; 
The  home,  the  port  of  liberty, 
Thou  hast  been,  and  shalt  ever  be, 

Till  time  is  o'er. 
Ere  I  forget  to  think  upon 
My  land,  shall  mother  curse  the  son 
She  bore. 

Thou  art  the  firm,  unshaken  rock, 

On  which  we  rest ; 
And,  rising  from  thy  hardy  stock, 
Thy  sons  the  tyrant's  frown  shall  mock, 
And  slavery's  galling  chains  unlock, 

And  free  the  oppressed : 
All  who  the  wreath  of  freedom  twine 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  their  vine, 
Are  blessed. 

•  •  •  •  • 

PERCIVAL. 


116  ADDRESS   TO   THE  MUMMY. 


ADDRESS  TO   THE   MUMMY  IN   BELZONI'S 
EXHIBITION. 

AND  tliou  hast  walked  about  (how  strange  a  story !) 
In  Thebes' s  streets  three  thousand  years  ago, 

When  the  Memnonium  was  in  all  its  glory, 
And  time  had  not  begun  to  overthrow 

Those  temples,  palaces,  and  piles  stupendous, 

Of  which  the  very  ruins  are  tremendous. 

Speak,  —  for  thou  long  enough  hast  acted  dummy ; 

Thou  hast  a  tongue,  —  come,  let  us  hear  its  tune  : 
Thou  'rt  standing  on  thy  legs,  above  ground,  mummy, 

Revisiting  the  glimpses  of  the  moon,  — 
Not  like  thin  ghosts  or  disembodied  creatures, 
But  with  thy  bones  and  flesh,  and  limbs  and  features. 

Tell  us  —  for  doubtless  thou  canst  recollect  — 
To  whom  should  we  assign  the  Sphinx's  fame  ? 

Was  Cheops  or  Cephrenes  architect 

Of  either  Pyramid  that  bears  his  name  ? 

Is  Pompey's  Pillar  really  a  misnomer  ? 

Had  Thebes  a  hundred  gates,  as  sung  by  Homer  ? 

Perhaps  thou  wert  a  Mason,  and  forbidden 
By  oath  to  tell  the  mysteries  of  thy  trade, 

Then  say  what  secret  melody  was  hidden 

In  Memnon's  statue,  which  at  sunrise  played  ? 

Perhaps  thou  wert  a  priest ;  if  so,  my  struggles 

Are  vain,  —  Egyptian  priests  ne'er  owned  their  juggles. 


ADDRESS    TO    THE  MUMMY.  117 

Perchance  that  very  hand,  now  pinioned  flat, 
Has  hob-a-nobbed  with  Pharaoh,  glass  to  glass  ; 

Or  dropped  a  halfpenny  in  Homer's  hat ; 
Or  doffed  thine  own  to  let  Queen  Dido  pass ; 

Or  held,  by  Solomon's  own  invitation, 

A  torch  at  the  great  temple's  dedication. 

I  need  not  ask  thee  if  that  hand,  when  armed, 
Has  any  Eoman  soldier  mauled  and  knuckled ; 

For  tliou  wert  dead  and  buried  and  embalmed 
Ere  Romulus  and  Remus  had  been  suckled  : 

Antiquity  appears  to  have  begun 

Long  after  thy  primeval  race  was  run. 

Since  first  thy  form  was  in  this  box  extended, 

We  have,  above  ground,  seen  some  strange  mutations : 

The  Roman  Empire  has  begun  and  ended ; 

New  worlds  have  risen,  we  have  lost  old  nations, 

And  countless  kings  have  into  dust  been  humbled, 

While  not  a  fragment  of  thy  flesh  has  crumbled. 

Didst  thou  not  hear  the  pother  o'er  thy  head 
When  the  great  Persian  conqueror,  Cambyses, 

Marched  armies  o'er  thy  tomb  with  thundering  tread, 
O'erthrew  Osiris,  Orus,  Apis,  Isis, 

And  shook  the  Pyramids  with  fear  and  wonder, 

When  the  gigantic  Memnon  fell  asunder  ? 

If  the  tomb's  secrets  may  not  be  confessed, 

The  nature  of  thy  private  life  unfold : 
A  heart  has  throbbed  beneath  that  leathern  breast, 

And  tears  adown  that  dusky  cheek  have  rolled ; 
Have  children  climbed  those  knees,  and  kissed  that  face  ? 
What  was  thy  name  and  station,  age  and  race  ? 


118  THE    GREEK  EMIGRANT'S   SONG. 

Statue  of  flesh,  —  immortal  of  the  dead ! 

Imperishable  type  of  evanescence ! 
Posthumous  man,  who  quitt'st  thy  narrow  bed, 

And  standest  undecayed  within  our  presence ! 
Thou  wilt  hear  nothing  till  the  Judgment  morning, 
When  the  great  trump  shall  thrill  thee  with  its  warning. 

Why  should  this  worthless  tegument  endure, 

If  its  undying  guest  be  lost  forever  ? 
Oh,  let  us  keep  the  soul  embalmed  and  pure 

In  living  virtue,  that  when  both  must  sever, 
Although  corruption  may  our  frame  consume, 
The  immortal  spirit  in  the  skies  may  bloom. 

HORACE  SMITH, 
London  New  Monthly  Magazine, 


THE  GEEEK  EMIGEANT'S  SONG. 

Now  launch  the  boat  upon  the  wave  ; 

The  wind  is  blowing  off  the  shore. 
I  will  not  live,  a  cowering  slave, 

In  these  polluted  islands  more ; 
Beyond  the  wild,  dark-heaving  sea 
There  is  a  better  home  for  me. 

The  wind  is  blowing  off  the  shore, 
And  out  to  sea  the  streamers  fly. 

My  music  is  the  dashing  roar, 
My  canopy  the  stainless  sky ; 

It  bends  above,  so  fair  a  blue, 

That  heaven  seems  opening  to  my  view. 


THE   GREEK  EMIGRANT'S  SONG.  119 

I  will  not  live  a  cowering  slave, 

Though  all  the  charms  of  life  may  shine 

Around  me,  and  the  land,  the  wave, 
And  sky  be  drawn  in  tints  divine: 

Give  lowering  skies  and  rocks  to  me, 

If  there  my  spirit  can  be  free. 

Sweeter  than  spicy  gales  that  blow 

From  orange  groves  with  wooing  breath, 

The  winds  may  from  these  islands  flow ; 
But 't  is  an  atmosphere  of  death,  — 

The  lotus  which  transformed  the  brave 

And  haughty  to  a  willing  slave. 

Softer  than  Minder's  winding  stream, 

The  wave  may  ripple  on  this  coast, 
And,  brighter  than  the  morning  beam, 

In  golden  swell  be  round  it  tost : 
Give  me  a  rude  and  stormy  shore, 
So  power  can  never  threat  me  more. 

Brighter  than  all  the  tales  they  tell 

Of  Eastern  pomp  and  pageantry, 
Our  sunset  skies  in  glory  swell, 

Hung  round  with  glowing  tapestry ; 
The  horrors  of  a  whiter  storm 
Swell  brighter  o'er  a  freeman's  form. 

The  Spring  may  here  with  Autumn  twine, 
And  both  combined  may  rule  the  year, 

And  fresh-blown  flowers  and  racy  wine 
In  frosted  clusters  still  be  near : 

Dearer  the  wild  and  snowy  hills 

Where  hale  and  ruddy  Freedom  smiles. 


120  WHAT  IS  PRAYER? 

Beyond  the  wild,  dark-heaving  sea, 
And  ocean's  stormy  vastness  o'er, 

There  is  a  better  home  for  me, 
A  welcomer  and  dearer  shore ;  ' 

There  hands  and  hearts  and  souls  are  twined, 
And  free  the  man,  and  free  the  mind. 

PERCIVAL. 


WHAT   IS   PRAYER? 

PRAYER  is  the  soul's  sincere  desire, 

Uttered  or  unexpressed ; 
The  motion  of  a  hidden  fire 

That  trembles  in  the  breast. 

Prayer  is  the  burden  of  a  sigh, 

The  falling  of  a  tear, 
The  upward  glancing  of  the  eye, 

When  none  but  God  is  near. 

Prayer  is  the  simplest  form  of  speech 

That  infant  lips  can  try ; 
Prayer  the  sublimest  strains  that  reach 

The  Majesty  on  high. 

Prayer  is  the  contrite  sinner's  voice, 

Returning  from  his  ways, 
While  angels  in  their  songs  rejoice, 

And  cry,  "  Behold,  he  prays  ! " 

Prayer  is  the  Christian's  vital  breath, 

The  Christian's  native  air; 
His  watchword  at  the  gates  of  death : 

He  enters  heaven  with  prayer. 


COME,    THOU  ALMIGHTY  KING.  121 

The  saints  in  prayer  appear  as  one 

In  word  and  deed  and  mind, 
While  with  the  Father  and  the  Son 

Sweet  fellowship  they  find. 


0  Thou,  by  whom  we  come  to  God ! 

The  Life,  the  Truth,  the  Way ! 
The  path  of  prayer  Thyself  hast  trod : 

Lord,  teach  us  how  to  pray  ! 

MONTGOMERY. 


COME,   THOU   ALMIGHTY   KING. 

COME,  thou  Almighty  King, 
Help  us  thy  name  to  sing, 

Help  us  to  praise  ; 
Father  all-glorious, 
O'er  all  victorious, 
Come,  and  reign  over  us, 

Ancient  of  days. 

Jesus,  our  Lord,  arise, 
Scatter  our  enemies, 

And  make  them  fall; 
Let  thine  almighty  aid 
Our  sure  defence  be  made ; 
Our  souls  on  thee  be  stayed: 

Lord,  hear  our  call. 

Come,  thou  incarnate  Word, 
Gird  on  thy  mighty  sword, 
Our  prayer  attend ; 


122  SERVANT   OF  GOD,    WELL   DONB. 

Come,  and  thy  people  bless, 
And  give  thy  word  success  : 
•Spirit  of  holiness, 
On  us  descend. 

Come,  holy  Comforter, 
Thy  sacred  witness  bear 

In  this  glad  hour : 
Thou,  who  almighty  art, 
Now  rule  in  every  heart, 
And  ne'er  from  us  depart, 

Spirit  of  power. 

To  the  great  One  and  Three 
Eternal  praises  be 

Hence,  evermore. 
His  sovereign  majesty 
May  we  in  glory  see, 
And  to  eternity 

Love  and  adore. 

CHARLES  WESLEY. 


SERVANT   OF   GOD,   WELL  DONE 

SEKVANT  of  God,  well  done ! 

Thy  glorious  warfare 's  past ; 
The  battle 's  fought,  the  race  is  won, 

And  thou  art  crowned  at  last,  — 

Of  all  thy  heart's  desire 

Triumphantly  possessed ; 
Lodged  by  the  ministerial  choir 

In  the  Redeemer's  breast. 


AWAKE  MY  SOUL,   STRETCH  EVERY  NERVE.     123 

In  condescending  love, 

The  ceaseless  prayer  he  heard, 
And  bade  thee  suddenly  remove 

To  thy  complete  reward. 

With  saints  enthroned  on  high, 

Thou  dost  thy  Lord  proclaim, 
And  still  to  God  salvation  cry,  — 

Salvation  to  the  Lamb. 

O  happy,  happy  soul, 

In  ecstasies  of  praise, 
Long  as  eternal  ages  roll, 

Thou  seest  thy  Saviour's  face. 

Kedeemed  from  earth  and  pain, 

Ah,  when  shall  we  ascend, 
And  all  in  Jesus'  presence  reign 

With  our  translated  friend  ? 

CHARLES  WESLEY. 


AWAKE,   MY   SOUL,   STEETCH  EVERY  NEEVE. 

AWAKE,  my  soul,  stretch  every  nerve, 

And  press  with  vigor  on ; 
A  heavenly  race  demands  thy  zeal, 

And  an  immortal  crown. 

'T  is  God's  all-animating  voice 

That  calls  thee  from  on  high; 
'T  is  he  whose  hand  presents  the  prize 

To  thine  aspiring  eye. 


124  NEARER,   MY  GOD,    TO    THEE. 

A  cloud  of  witnesses  around 

Hold  thee  in  full  survey ; 
Forget  the  steps  already  trod, 

And  onward  urge  thy  way. 

Blest  Saviour,  introduced  by  thee, 
Our  race  have  we  begun ; 

o        y 

And,  crowned  with  victor}',  at  thy  feet 
We  '11  lay  our  trophies  down. 

DODDKIDGE. 


NEARER,   MY    GOD,   TO   THEE. 

NEARER,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee! 
E'en  though  it  be  a  cross 

That  raiseth  me ; 
Still  all  my  song  shall  be, 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee ! 

Though  like  a  wanderer, 

The  sun  gone  down, 
Darkness  be  over  me, 

My  rest  a  stone ; 
Yet  in  my  dreams  I  'd  be 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee ! 

There  let  the  way  appear 

Steps  unto  heaven  ; 
All  that  thou  sendest  me 

In  mercy  given ; 


THE  DYING   CHRISTIAN  TO  HIS  SOUL.  125 

Angels  to  beckon  me       , 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 
Nearer  to  thee ! 

Then,  with  my  waking  thoughts 

Bright  with  thy  praise, 
Out  of  my  stony  griefs 

Bethel  I'll  raise ; 
So  by  my  woes  to  be 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee ! 

Or  if  on  joyful  wing 

Cleaving  the  sky, 
Sun,  moon,  and  stars  forgot, 

Upward  I  fly ; 
Still  all  my  song  shall  be, 
Nearer,  my  God,  to  thee, 

Nearer  to  thee ! 

SARAH  FLOWER  ADAMS. 
Sung  Oct.  10,  1860. 


THE  DYING   CHEISTIAN   TO  HIS   SOUL. 

VITAL  spark  of  heavenly  flame, 
Quit,  oh,  quit  this  mortal  frame  ! 
Trembling,  hoping,  lingering,  flying, 
Oh  the  pain,  the  bliss  of  dying ! 
•  Cease,  fond  nature,  cease  thy  strife, 
And  let  me  languish  into  life  ! 

Hark  !  they  whisper  :  angels  say, 
Sister  spirit,  come  away  ! 


126  THE  BURIAL    OF  ARNOLD. 

What  is  this  absorbs  me  quite, 
Steals  my  senses,  shuts  my  sight, 
Drowns  my  spirits,  draws  my  breath  ? 
Tell  me,  my  soul,  can  this  be  deatli  ? 

The  world  recedes ;  it  disappears  :    ' 
Heaven  opens  on  my  eyes ;  my  ears 

With  sounds  seraphic  ring : 
Lend,  lend  your  wings  !  I  mount !  I  fly  ! 
0  grave !  where  is  thy  victory  ? 

0  death  !  where  is  thy  sting  ? 


POPE. 


THE   BUEIAL  OF  AENOLD.1 

YE  've  gathered  to  your  place  of  prayer 

With  slow  and  measured  tread  ; 
Your  ranks  are  full,  your  mates  all  there, 

But  the  soul  of  one  has  fled. 
He  was  the  proudest  in  his  strength, 

The  manliest  of  ye  all ; 
Why  lies  he- at  that  fearful  length, 

And  ye  around  his  pall  ? 

Ye  reckon  it  in  days  since  he 

Strode  up  that  foot-worn  aisle, 
With  his  dark  eye  flashing  gloriously, 

And  his  lip  wreathed  with  a  smile. 
Oh,  had  it  been  but  told  you  then, 

To  mark  whose  lamp  was  dim, 
From  out  yon  rank  of  fresh-lipped  men, 

Would  ye  have  singled  him  ? 

1  Member  of  the  Senior  class  in  Yale  College. 


THE  BURIAL   OF  ARNOLD.  127 

Whose  was  the  sinewy  arm  which  flung 

Defiance  to  the  ring  ? 
Whose  laugh  of  victory  loudest  rung, 

Yet  not  for  glorying  ? 
Whose  heart,  in  generous  deed  and  thought, 

No  rivalry  might  brook, 
And  yet  distinction  claiming  not  ? 

There  lies  he,  —  go  and  look. 

On  now,  —  his  requiem  is  done, 

The  last  deep  prayer  is  said,  — 
On  to  his  burial,  comrades,  on, 

With  the  noblest  of  the  dead  ! 
Slow,  —  for  it  presses  heavily, 

It  is  a  man  ye  bear. 
Slow,  —  for  our  thoughts  dwell  wearily 

On  the  noblest  sleeper  there. 

Tread  lightly,  comrades,  —  we  have  laid 

His  dark  locks  on  his  brow, 
Like  life,  save  deeper  light  and  shade ; 

We  11  not  disturb  them  now. 
Tread  lightly,  —  for  't  is  beautiful, 

That  blue-veined  eyelid's  sleep, 
Hiding  the  eye  death  left  so  dull; 

Its  slumber  we  will  keep. 

Best  now,  —  his  journeying  is  done, 

Your  feet  are  on  his  sod ; 
Death's  chain  is  on  your  champion, 

He  waiteth  here  his  God. 
Ay,  turn  and  weep,  —  't  is  manliness 

To  be  heart-broken  here ; 
For  the  grave  of  earth's  best  nobleness 

Is  watered  by  the  tear. 

WILLIS. 


123  THE  PILGRIM  FATHERS. 


THE   PILGRIM   FATHERS. 

THE  Pilgrim  Fathers,  —  where  are  they  ? 

The  waves  that  brought  them  o'er 
Still  roll  in  the  bay,  and  throw  their  spray 

As  they  break  along  the  shore,  — 
Still  roll  in  the  bay  as  they  rolled  that  day 

When  the  Mayflower  moored  below, 
When  the  sea  around  was  black  with  storms, 

And  white  the  shore  with  snow. 

The  mists  that  wrapped  the  Pilgrim's  sleep, 

Still  brood  upon  the  tide ; 
And  his  rocks  yet  keep  their  watch  by  the  deep, 

To  stay  its  waves  of  pride. 
But  the  snow-white  sail  that  he  gave  to  the  gale, 

When  the  heavens  look  dark,  is  gone,  — 
As  an  angel's  wing  through  an  opening  cloud 

Is  seen,  and  then  withdrawn. 

The  Pilgrim  exile, —  sainted  name  !  — 

The  hill,  whose  icy  brow 
Rejoiced,  when  he  came,  in  the  morning's  flame, 

In  the  morning's  flame  burns  now. 
And  the  moon's  cold  light,  as  it  lay  that  night 

On  the  hillside  and  the  sea, 
Still  lies  where  he  laid  his  houseless  head ; 

But  the  Pilgrim,  —  where  is  he  ? 

The  Pilgrim  Fathers  are  at  rest ; 

When  summer 's  throned  on  high, 
And  the  world's  warm  breast  is  in  verdure  dressed, 

Go,  stand  on  the  hill  where  they  lie. 


DEATH  OF  JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE.  129 

The  earliest  ray  of  the  golden  day 

On  the  hallowed  spot  is  cast ; 
And  the  evening  sun,  as  he  leaves  the  world, 

Looks  kindly  on  that  spot  last. 

The  Pilgrim  spirit  has  not  fled : 

It  walks  in  noon's  broad  light ; 
And  it  watches  the  bed  of  the  glorious  dead, 

With  the  holy  stars,  by  night. 
1 1  watches  the  bed  of  the  brave  who  have  bled, 

And  shall  guard  this  ice-bound  shore, 
Till  the  waves  of  the  bay  where  the  Mayflower  lay 

Shall  foam  and  freeze  no  more. 


ON   THE   DEATH   OF  JOSEPH   RODMAN  DRAKE. 

DIED   IN    NEW   YORK,   SEPTEMBER,    1820. 

"  The  good  die  first, 

And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust 
Bum  to  the  socket." 

WORDSWORTH. 

GREEN  be  the  turf  above  thee, 

Friend  of  my  better  days  ! 
None  knew  thee  but  to  love  thee, 

Nor  named  thee  but  to  praise. 

Tears  fell,  when  thou  wert  dying, 

From  eyes  unused  to  weep, 
And  long,  where  thou  art  lying, 

Will  tears  the  cold  turf  steep, 

When  hearts,  whose  truth  was  proven, 
Like  thine,  are  laid  in  earth, 
9 


130  THE  MEETING   OF   THE   SHIP*. 

There  should  a  wreath  be  woven 
To  tell  the  world  their  worth ; 

And  I,  who  woke  each  morrow- 
To  clasp  thy  hand  in  mine, 

Who  shared  thy  joy  and  sorrow, 
Whose  weal  and  woe  were  thine,  — 

It  should  be  mine  to  braid  it 

Around  thy  faded  brow  ; 
But  1  've  in  vain  essayed  it, 

And  feel  I  cannot  now. 

While  memory  bids  me  weep  thee, 
Nor  thoughts  nor  words  are  free, 

The  grief  is  fixed  too  deeply 
That  mourns  a  man  like  thee. 

HALLECK. 


THE   MEETING   OF   THE   SHIPS.  ' 

WHEN  o'er  the  silent  seas  alone 
For  days  and  nights  we  've  cheerless  gone, 
Oh,  they  who  Ve  felt  it  know  how  sweet, 
Some  sunny  morn,  a  sail  to  meet. 

Sparkling  on  deck  is  every  eye, 

"  Ship  ahoy  !  ship  ahoy  ! "  our  joyful  cry ; 

While  answering  back  the  sounds  we  hear, 

"  Ship  ahoy !  ship  ahoy ! "  what  cheer  ?  what  cheer  ? 

Then  sails  are  backed,  we  nearer  come, 
Kind  words  are  said  of  friends  and  home ; 
And  soon,  too  soon.,  we  part  with  pain, 

To  sail  o'er  silent  seas  again. 

MOORE. 

Sung  by  S.  S.  F. 


THE  BONNY  BOAT.  131 


THE   BONNY   BOAT. 

OH,  swiftly  glides  the  bonny  boat, 

Just  parted  from  the  shore, 
And  to  the  fisher's  chorus  note 

Soft  moves  the  dripping  oar. 
These  toils  are  borne  with  happy  cheer, 

And  ever  may  they  speed, 
That  feeble  age,  and  helpmate  dear, 

And  tender  bairnies  feed. 

CHORUS. 

We  cast  our  lines  in  Largo  Bay, 

Our  nets  are  floating  wide ; 
Our  bonny  boat  with  yielding  sway 

Rocks  lightly  to  the  tide. 
And  happy  prove  our  daily  lot 

Upon  the  summer  sea, 
And  blest  on  land  our  kindly  cot, 

Where  all  our  treasures  be. 

The  mermaid  on  her  rock  may  sing, 

The  witch  may  weave  her  charm, 
Nor  water-sprite,  nor  eldrich  thing, 

The  bonny  boat  can  harm. 
It  safely  bears  its  scaly  store 

Through  many  a  stormy  gale ; 
While  joyful  shouts  rise  from  the  shore, 

Its  homeward  prow  to  hail. 
We  cast  our  lines,  &c. 

Now,  safe  arrived  on  shores,  we  meet 
Our  friends  with  happy  cheer, 


132  SONG. 

And  with  the  fisher's  chorus  greet 

All  those  we  hold  most  dear. 
With  happy  cheer  the  echoing  cove 

Repeats  the  chanted  note, 
As  homeward  to  our  cot  we  move 

Our  bonny,  bonny  boat. 

We  cast  our  lines,  &c. 

JOANNA  BAILLIE  (?) 
Sung  by  S.  S.  F. 


.       SONG. 

Eow  gently  here, 

My  gondolier  ! 
So  softly  wake  the  tide, 

That  not  an  ear 

On  earth  may  hear, 
But  hers  to  whom  we  glide. 

Had  heaven  but  tongues  to  speak, 

As  well  as  starry  eyes  to  see ; 
Oh,  think  what  tales  't  would  have  to  tell 

Of  wandering  youths  like  me. 

Now  rest  thee  here, 

My  gondolier ! 
Hush,  hush,  for  up  I  go, 

To  climb  yon  light 

Balcony's  height, 
While  thou  keep'st  watch  below. 

Oh,  did  we  take  for  heaven  above, 

But  half  such  pains  as  we 
Take  day  and  night  for  woman's  love, 

What  angels  we  should  be  ! 

MOORE. 


THE  HIGHLANDER.  133 


THE  HIGHLANDER 

Many  years  ago,  a  poor  Highland  soldier  OH  his  return  to  his  native  hills, 
fatigued,  as  it  was  supposed,  by  the  length  of  the  march  and  the  heat  of  the 
weather,  sat  down  under  the  shade  of  a  birch-tree,  on  the  solitary  road  of  Lowrin, 
that  winds  along  the  margin  of  Loch  Ken,  in  Galloway.  Here  he  was  found  dead; 
and  this  incident  forms  the  subject  of  the  following  verses. 

FROM  the  climes  of  the  sun,  all  war-worn  and  weary, 
The  Highlander  sped  to  his  youthful  abode ; 

Fair  visions  of  home  cheered  the  desert  so  dreary, 

Though  fierce  was  the  noonbeam  and  steep  was  the  road. 

Till,  spent  with  the  march  that  still  lengthened  before  him, 
He  stopped  by  the  way  in  a  sylvan  retreat ; 

The  light  shady  boughs  of  the  birch-tree  waved  o'er  him, 
And  the  stream  of  the  mountain  fell  soft  at  his  feet. 

He  sunk  to  repose  where  the  red  heaths  are  blended, 
One  dream  of  his  childhood  his  fancy  passed  o'er; 

But  his  battles  are  fought,  and  his  march  —  it  is  ended  : 
The  sound  of  the  bagpipe .  shall  wake  him  no  more. 

No  arm  in  the  day  of  the  conflict  could  wound  him, 
Though  war  launched  her  thunder  in  fury  to  kill ; 

Now  the  angel  of  death  in  the  desert  has  found  him, 
Now  stretched  him  in  peace  by  the  stream  of  the  hill. 

Pale  autumn  spreads  o'er  him  the  leaves  of  the  forest, 
The  fays  of  the  wild  chant  the  dirge  of  his  rest ; 

And  thou,  little  brook,  still  the  sleeper  deplorest, 

And  moistenest  the  heath-bell  that  weeps  on  his  breast. 

W.  GILLESPIE. 


134  CASABIANCA. 


CASABIANCA. 

THE  boy  stood  on  the  burning  deck, 
Whence  all  but  him  had  fled ; 

The  flame  that  lit  the  battle's  wreck 
Shone  round  him  o'er  the  dead. 

Yet  beautiful  and  bright  he  stood, 

As  born  to  rule  the  storm ; 
A  creature  of  heroic  blood, 

A  proud,  though  childlike  form. 

The  flames  rolled  on,  —  he  would  not  go 

Without  his  father's  word ; 
That  father,  faint  in  death  below, 

His  voice  no  longer  heard. 

He  called  aloud,  "  Say,  father,  say, 

If  yet  my  task  is  done  ! " 
He  knew  not  that  the  chieftain  lay 

Unconscious  of  his  son. 

"  Speak,  father,"  once  again  he  cried, 

"  If  I  may  yet  be  gone !  " 
And  but  the  booming  shots  replied, 

And  fast  the  flames  rolled  on. 

Upon  his  brow  he  felt  their  breath, 

And  in  his  waving  hair, 
And  looked  from  that  lone  post  of  death 

In  still,  yet  brave  despair. 


I.1XES  ADDRESSED   TO    YOUNG  MEN.  135 

And  shouted  but  once  more  aloud, 

"  My  father,  must  I  stay  ? " 
While  o'er  him  fast,  through  sail  and  shroud  ; 

The  wreathing  fires  made  way. 

They  wrapt  the  ship  in  splendor  wild, 

They  caught  the  flag  on  high, 
And  streamed  above  the  gallant  child, 

Like  banners  in  the  sky. 

There  came  a  burst  of  thunder  sound ; 

The  boy,  —  oh,  where  was  he  ? 
Ask  of  the  winds  that  far  around 

With  fragments  strewed  the  sea,  — 

With  mast,  and  helm,  and  pennon  fair, 

That  well  had  borne  their  part ; 
But  the  noblest  thing  that  perished  there 

Was  that  young,  faithful  heart. 

MRS.  HEMANS. 
Repeated  by  K.  S. 


LINES 

ADDRESSED    TO    THE    YOUNG   MEN    LEAVING    THE    ACADEMY   AT 
LENOX,    MASSACHUSETTS. 

LIFE  is  before  ye, —  and  while  now  ye  stand, 
Eager  to  spring  upon  the  promised  land, 
Fair  smiles  the  way,  where  yet  your  feet  have  trod 
„  But  few  light  steps,  upon  a  flowery  sod  ; 
Round  ye  are  youth's  green  bowers,  and  to  your  eyes 
The  horizon's  line  joins  earth  with  the  bright  skies  ; 


136  LINES  ADDRESSED   TO    YOUNG  Ml'.X. 

Daring  and  triumph,  pleasure,  fame,  and  joy, 
Friendship  unwavering,  love  without  alloy, 
Brave  thoughts  of  noble  deeds,  and  glory  won, 
Like  angels,  beckon  ye  to  venture  on.    • 
And  if  o'er  the  bright  scene  some  shadows  rise, 
Far  off  they  seem,  at  hand  the  sunshine  lies. 
The  distant  clouds  which  of  ye  pause  to  fear  ? 
Shall  not  a  brightness  gild  them  when  more  near  ? 
Dismay  and  doubt  ye  know  riot,  for  the  power 
Of  youth  is  strong  within  ye  at  this  hour, 
And  the  great  mortal  conflict  seems  to  ye 
Not  so  much  strife  as  certain  victory,  — 
v  A  glory  ending  in  eternity. 

Life  is  before  ye,  —  oh,  if  ye  could  look 
Into  the  secrets  of  that  sealed  book, 
Strong  as  ye  are  in  youth  and  hope  and  faith, 
Ye  should  sink  down  and  falter,  "  Give  us  death." 
Could  the  dread  Sphinx's  lips  but  once  disclose, 
And  utter  but  a  whisper  of  the  woes 
Which  must  o'ertake  ye,  in  your  lifelong  doom, 
Well  might  ye  cry,  "  Our  cradle  be  our  tomb." 
Could  ye  foresee  your  spirit's  broken  wings, 
Earth's  brightest  triumphs  what  despised  things, 
Friendship  how  feeble,  love  how  fierce  a  flame, 
Your  joy  half  sorrow,  half  your  glory  shame, 
Hollowness,  weariness,  and,  worst  of  all, 
Self-scorn  that  pities  not  its  own  deep  fall ; 
Fast-gathering  darkness,  and  fast- waning  light,  — 
Oh,  could  ye  see  it  all,  ye  might,  ye  might 
Cower  in  the  dust,  unequal  to  the  strife, 
And  die  but  in  beholding  what  is  life. 

Life  is  before  ye,  —  from  the  fated  road 
Ye  cannot  turn ;  then  take  ye  up  your  load. 


LINES  ADDRESSED    TO    YOUNG  MEN.  137 

Not  yours  to  tread  or  leave  the  unknown  way ; 

Ye  must  go  o'er  it,  meet  ye  what  ye  may. 

Gird  up  your  souls  within  ye  to  the  deed ; 

Angels  and  fellow  spirits  bid  ye  speed. 

What  though  the  brightness  dim,  the  pleasure  fade, 

The  glory  wane,  —  oh,  not  of  these  is  made 

The  awful  life  that  to  your  trust  is  given, 

Children  of  God,  inheritors  of  heaven ! 

Mourn  not  the  perishing  of  each  fair  toy : 

Ye  were  ordained  to  do,  not  to  enjoy ; 

To  suffer,  which  is  nobler  than  to  dare. 

A  sacred  burden  is  this  life  ye  bear ; 

Look  on  it,  lift  it,  bear  it  solemnly, 

Stand  up  and  walk  beneath  it  steadfastly ; 

Fail  not  for  sorrow,  falter  not  for  sin, 

But  onward,  upward,  till  the  goal  ye  win. 

God  guard  ye,  and  God  guide  ye  on  your  way, 

Young  pilgrim  warriors  who  set  forth  to-day. 


I  heard  Youth's  silver  clarion  call  to  fate, 

And,  looking  forth,  beheld  his  flower-fair  face 

Framed  in  his  shining  helmet  as  he  sate 

Sheathed  in  white  armor,  full  of  careless  grace, 

Watching  the  coming  of  a  threatening  cloud, 

Hueless  and  shapeless,  that  with  stealthy  pace 

Was  creeping  towards  him.    "  Oh,  dear  youth,  beware !  " 

But  answer  made  he  none,  save  laughed  aloud. 

"  Beware,"  I  cried ;  "  it  hides  some  hideous  snare." 

At  it  he  made,  and  vanished  in  the  shroud, 

Whence  there  broke  forth,  0  Christ,  so  sharp  a  cry 

Of  dire  defeat  and  bitter  agony, 

That  all  my  blood  ran  back  in  all  my  veins. 

And  when  the  accursed  blackness  rolled  away, 


138  FILL    THE  BUMPER   FAIR! 

Prone  in  the  dust  my  lovely  warrior  lay, 
Defiled,  not  dead ;  sore  wounded ;  shamed,  not  slain  ; 
His  shining  armor  smirched  with  many  a  stain, 
Filthy  and  foul,  ne'er  to  be  bright  agaiir. 

MRS.  KEMBLE. 

The  last  stanza  is  copied  from  her  own  manuscript,  sent  me,  November,  1883. 


FILL  THE   BUMPER  FAIR! 

FILL  the  bumper  fair ! 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O'er  the  brow  of  Care 

Smooths  away  a  wrinkle. 
Wit's  electric  flame 

Ne'er  so  swiftly  passes, 
As  when  through  the  frame 

It  shoots  from  brimming  glasses. 
Fill  the  bumper  fair ! 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O'er  the  brow  of  Care 

Smooths  away  a  wrinkle. 

Sages  can,  they  say, 

Grasp  the  lightning's  pinions, 
And  bring  down  its  ray 

From  the  starred  dominions ; 
So  we,  Sages,  sit 

And,  'mid  bumpers  brightening, 
From  the  heaven  of  Wit 

Draw  down  all  its  lightning. 


FILL    THE  BUMPER   FAIR.  139 

Wouldst  thou  know  what  first 

Made  our  souls  inherit 
This  ennobling  thirst 

For  wine's  celestial  spirit  ? 
It  chanced  upon  that  day, 

When,  as  bards  inform  us, 
Prometheus  stole  away 

The  living  fires  that  warm  us, 

The  careless  Youth,  when  up 

To  Glory's  fount  aspiring, 
Took  nor  urn  nor  cup  • 

To  hide  the  pilfered  fire  in, 
But,  oh,  his  joy  when,  round 

The  halls  of  heaven  spying, 
Among  the  stars  he  found 

A  bowl  of  Bacchus  lying. 

Some  drops  were  in  that  bowl, 

Eemains  of  last  night's  pleasure, 
With  which  the  Sparks  of  Soul 

Mixed  their  burning  treasure. 
Hence  the  goblet's  shower 

Hath  such  spells  to  win  us ; 
Hence  its  mighty  power 

O'er  that  flame  within  us. 
Fill  the  bumper  fair ! 

Every  drop  we  sprinkle 
O'er  the  brow  of  Care 

Smooths  away  a  wrinkle. 

MOORE. 


140  DRINK   TO  HER. 


DRINK   TO   HER. 

DKINK  to  her  who  long 

Hath  waked  the  poet's  sigh, 
The  girl  who  gave  to  song 

What  gold  could  never  buy. 
Oh !  woman's  heart  was  made 

For  minstrel  hands  alone ; 
By  other  fingers  played, 

It  yields  not  half  the  tone. 
Then  here  's  to  her  who  long 

Hath  waked  the  poet's  sigh, 
The  girl  who  gave  to  song 

What  gold  could  never  buy. 

At  Beauty's  door  of  glass, 

When  Wealth  and  Wit  once  stood, 
They  asked  her,  "  Which  might  pass  ? " 

She  answered,  "  He  who  could. " 
With  golden  key  Wealth  thought 

To  pass,  but 't  would  not  do ; 
While  Wit  a  diamond  brought, 

Which  cut  his  bright  way  through. 
So  here  's  to  her  who  long 

Hath  waked  the  poet's  sigh, 
The  girl  who  gave  to  song 

What  gold  could  never  buy. 

The  love  that  seeks  a  home 

Where  wealth  and  grandeur  shines, 
Is  like  the  gloomy  gnome 

That  dwells  in  dark  gold-mines. 


OH,  HAD  WE  SOME  BRIGHT  LITTLE  ISLE. 

But,  oh,  the  poet's  love 

Can  boast  a  brighter  sphere ; 
Its  native  home  's  above, 

Though  woman  keeps  it  here. 
Then  drink  to  her  who  long 

Hath  waked  the  poet's  sigh, 
The  girl  who  gave  to  song 

What  gold  could  never  buy. 

MOORE. 


OH,   HAD   WE   SOME   BEIGHT   LITTLE   ISLE 
OF   OUK   OWN! 

OH,  had  we  some  bright  little  isle  of  our  own, 

In  a  blue  summer  ocean  far  off  and  alone, 

Where  a  leaf  never  dies  in  the  still-blooming  bowers, 

And  the  bee  banquets  on  through  a  whole  year  of  flowers ; 

Where  the  sun  loves  to  pause 
With  so  fond  a  delay, 

That  the  night  only  draws 
A  thin  veil  o'er  the  day ; 

Where  simply  to  feel  that  we  breathe,  that  we  live, 
Is  worth  the  best  joy  that  life  elsewhere  can  give. 

There  with  souls  ever  ardent  and  pure  as  the  clime, 
We  should  love  as  they  loved  in  the  first  golden  time ; 
The  glow  of  the  sunshine,  the  balm  of  the  air, 
Would  steal  to  our  hearts,  and  make  all  summer  there. 
With  affection  as  free 

From  decline  as  the  bowers, 
And  with  hope,  like  the  bee, 
Living  always  on  flowers, 
Our  life  should  resemble  a  long  day  of  light, 
And  our  death  come  on  holy  and  calm  as  the  night. 

MOORE. 


142  REMOVAL   OF  SOME   FAMILY  PORTRAITS. 


THE   GIPSY   LADDIE. 

THE  gipsies  cam  to  our  Laird's  yett, 
And,  oh,  but  they  sang  sae  sweetly  ! 
They  sang  sae  sweet,  sae  very  complete, 
That  doun  cam  the  fair  Ladye. 

She  cam  tripping  doun  the  stair 

Wi'  all  her  maids  before  her ; 

And  when  they  saw  her  weel-faur'd  face 

They  cast  the  glamour  o'er  her. 

"  Tak  frae  rne  my  gay  mantle, 
And  bring  to  me  my  plaidie ; 
For  if  kith  and  kin  and  a'  had  sworn, 
I  'm  off  with  the  Gipsy  Laddie." 

And  when  her  Laird  cam  hame  at  e'en, 
And  speired  for  his  fair  Ladye, 
The  ane  she  cried,  the  tither  replied, 
"  She  's  off  with  the  Gipsy  Laddie." 

ANONYMOUS. 

["  This  is  an  incorrect  version  of  the  ballad  ;  but  I  never  knew  any  other,  and  sang 
it  so."  —  MRS.  KEMBLE.] 

This  poem  is  from  manuscript  in  Mrs.  FANNY  KEMBLE'S  handwriting,  received  in 
BOSTON,  Nov.  3,  1883,  and  sung  by  her  after  a  skating-party  at  MILTON,  about 
1853. 


ON  THE  REMOVAL  OF  SOME  FAMILY  POETEAITS. 

SILENT  friends,  fare  ye  well! 

Shadows,  adieu ! 
Living  friends  long  I  've  lost, 

Now  I  lose  you. 


REMOVAL   OF  SOME   FAMILY  PORTRAITS.         143 

Bitter  tears  many  I  Ve  shed, 

Ye  've  seen  them  flow ; 
Dreary  hours  many  I  Ve  sped, 

Full  well  ye  know. 

Yet  in  my  loneliness, 

Kindly,  methought, 
Still  ye  looked  down  on  me, 

Mocking  me  not 

With  light  speech  and  hollow  words, 

Grating  so  sore 
The  sad  heart,  with  many  ills 

Sick  to  the  core. 

Then,  if  my  clouded  skies 

*Brightened  awhile, 
Seemed  your  soft,  serious  eyes 

Almost  to  smile. 

Silent  friends,  fare  ye  well ! 

Shadows,  adieu ! 
Living  friends  long  I  Ve  lost, 

Now  I  lose  you. 

Taken  from  hearth  and  board, 

When  all'  were  gone, 
I  looked  up  at  you  and  felt 

Not  quite  alone. 

Not  quite  companionless, 

While  in  each  face 
Met  me  familiar 

The  stamp  of  my  race. 


144         REMOVAL   OF  SOME  FAMILY  PORTRAITS. 

Thine,  gentle  ancestress ! 

Dove-eyed  and  fair, 
Melting  in  sympathy 

Oft  for  my  care. 

i 

Grim  Knight  and  stern-visaged  ! 

Yet  could  I  see 

(Smoothing  that  furrowed  face) 
Good-will  to  me. 

Bland  looks  were  beaming 

Upon  me  I  knew, 
Fair  sir,  bonnie  lady, 

From  you,  and  from  you. 

Little  think  happy  ones, 

Heart-circled  round, 
How  fast  to  senseless  things 

Hearts  may  be  bound ; 

How,  when  the  living  prop 's 

Mouldered  and  gone, 
Heart-strings,  low  trailing  left, 

Clasp  the  cold  stone. 

Silent  friends,  fare  ye  well ! 

Shadows,  adieu  ! 
Living  friends  long  I  Ve  lost, 

Now  I  lose  you. 

Often  when  spirit-vexed, 

Weary  and  worn, 
To  your  quiet  faces,  mute 
Friends,  would  I  turn. 


REMOVAL   OF  SOME  FAMILY  PORTRAITS.          145 

Soft  as  I  gazed  on  them, 

Soothing  as  balm, 
Lulling  the  passion-storm, 

Stole  your  deep  calm. 

Till,  as  I  longer  looked, 

Surely,  methought, 
Ye  read  and  replied  to 

My  questioning  thought. 

"Daughter,"  ye  softly  said, 

"  Peace  to  thine  heart : 
We  too  —  yes,  daughter  !  —  have 

Been  as  thou  art ; 

"  Tossed  on  the  troubled  waves, 

Life's  stormy  sea ; 
Chance  and  change  manifold 

Proving  like  thee. 

"  Hope-lifted,  doubt-depressed, 

Seeing  in  part, 
Tried,  troubled,  tempted, 

Sustained  as  thou  art, 

."  Our  God  is  thy  God,  —  what  He 

Willeth  is  best ; 
Trust  him  as  we  trusted,  then 

Eest  as  we  rest." 

Silent  friends,  fare  ye  well ! 

Shadows,  adieu ! "" 
One  friend  abideth  still 

All  changes  through. 

MRS.  SOUTHEY. 
10 


146  TWO  KINDS   OF  PIETY. 


TWO   KINDS   OF  PIETY. 

The  following  lines  may  be  objected  to  by  some  for  a  seeming  irreverence  of 
language,  but  the  discerning  reader  will  see  that  they  are  far  from  irreverent  in 
purpose  and  spirit.  In  this  respect  they  remind  us  of  the  eccentric  methods  by 
which  Rev.  Rowland  Hill  and  other  excellent  divines  have  sometimes  inculcated 
the  most  sacred  lessons  of  Scripture.  The  incident  on  which  they  are  founded  is 
thus  related  for  the  "New  York  Evening  Post"  :  "A  few  years  since,  a  powerful 
revival  of  religion  was  witnessed  at  Oldtown,  Maine.  Among  the  converts  was  an 
Indian  of  the  Penobscot  tribe.  Soon  after  his  conversion,  Peol  attended  a  prayer- 
meeting,  and  was  called  upon  to  "tell  his  experience."  Not  exactly  understand- 
ing the  construction  of  the  King's  English,  Peol  expressed  himself  as  follows  : 
"  Oh,  glory,  me  feel  pious  like  hell ! " 

THE  hand  of  religion  is  potent  to  save, 

Its  value  no  mortal  can  prize ; 
.  It  leads  us  in  safety  clear  down  to  the  grave, 

Then  gives  us  a  pass  to  the  skies. 
But  since  the  grand  choice  in  the  garden  was  given, 

Since  Adam  from  paradise  fell, 
Full  many  are  found  to  be  pious  like  heaven, 

While  many  are  "  pious  like  hell." 

I  once  was  an  orphan-boy,  mortgaged  and  leased, 

And  served  without  hope  of  a  fee, 
For  one  who  was  lending  the  Lord  what  she  fleeced 

From  the  girl  in  the  kitchen  and  me. 
'T  was  a  day  or  two  since  that  I  gazed  on  the  face 

Of  her,  the  once  Mademoiselle, 
And  thought,  though  she  bragged  of  "abounding  grace," 

That  she,  too,  was  "  pious  like  hell." 

But  tares  in  the  wheat,  and  the  counterfeit  coin, 
Should  rob  us  of  none  of  our  rest ; 


DOLCE  FAR   NIENTE.  147 

Let  this  be  our  motto  while  journeying  on,  — 

"  God  orders  all  things  for  the  best." 
And,  mind  you,  no  knowledge  to  mortal  is  given, 

By  which  that  frail  mortal  can  tell, 
Except  by  the  fruits,  who  is  pious  like  heaven, 

Or  as  Peol  was,  "  pious  like  hell." 

DAVID  BARKER. 


DOLCE   FA'R  NIENTE. 

SHE  bends  above  me  like  a  night 

Deep-skied  and  tropic-starred ; 
Her  face  a  clime  of  peace  wherefrom 

All  sorrow  is  debarred. 
She  drops  above  me  like  a  spell 

All  potent  in  repose, 
While  from  her  mouth  the  kisses  fall 

Like  rose  leaves  from  a  rose. 

I  cannot  move  for  utter  bliss, 

Her  beauty  weighs  me  down ; 
It  broods  about  me  like  a  sea, 

Wherein  I  dream  and  drown. 
The  water  wields  me  at  its  will, 

Along  with  all  sea  things, 
Hither  and  thither  swayed  and  sent 

In  endless  journeyings. 

O  rare  strange  face  !  within  whose  round 
Glad  things  and  sad  things  meet,  — 

Sufficient  sweetness  yet  made  up 
Of  things  diversely  sweet,  — 


148  ST.  SENANUS  AND    THE  LADY. 

Your  beauty  bends  the  souls  of  men, 

As  a  wind  bends  the  wheat ; 
And  they  who  cannot  reach  your  lips 

Die  happy  at  your  feet. 

I  lie  inert,  I  take  no  care 

For  better  or  for  worse  ; 
Her  beauty  bears  me  dizzily 

Safe  through  the  universe  ; 
One  moment  sunk  in  soundless  depths, 

And  the  next  skyward  driven, 
The  buoyant  blossom  of  her  face 

Floats  me  as  high  as  heaven. 

JOSEPH  BRADFORD. 


ST.   SENANUS  AND   THE  LADY. 

ST.   SENANUS. 

OH,  haste  and  leave  this  sacred  isle, 
Unholy  bark,  ere  morning  smile ; 
For  on  thy  deck,  though  dark  it  be, 

A  female  form  I  see, 
And  I  have  sworn  this  sainted  sod 
Shall  ne'er  by  woman's  feet  be  trod. 

THE   LADY. 

0  father !  send  not  hence  my  bark, 
Through  wintry  winds  and  billows  dark ; 

1  come  with  humble  heart  to  share 
Thy  morn  and  evening  prayer: 

Nor  mine  the  feet,  0  holy  saint, 
The  brightness  of  thy  sod  to  taint 


SHAN   VAN   VOCHT.  149 

The  lady's  prayer  Senanus  spurned ; 
The  winds  blew  fresh,  the  bark  returned ; 
But  legends  hint  that  had  the  maid 

Till  morning's  light  delayed, 
And  given  the  saint  one  rosy  smile, 

She  ne'er  had  left  his  lonely  isle. 

MOORE. 


WOMAN'S  LOVE. 

DOES  woman  always  love  where  she  is  loved  ? 

The  heart  is  not  so  blunt  mechanical 

That  it  should  instant  throb  to  outward  touch. 

A  woman  who  is  woman  aptest  is 

To  ope  the  virgin  petals  of  her  love 

Where  a  true  warmth  wooes  for  their  fragrancy ; 

And  even  when  she  cannot  interchange, 

Will  with  a  sigh  distil  some  tenderness. 

GEORGE  H.  CALVERT,  Boston  Transcript. 


SHAN   VAN   VOCHT. 

OH,  the  French  are  on  the  say, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht ; 
The  French  are  on  the  say, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 

Oh,  the  French  are  in  the  bay, 

They  11  be  here  without  delay, 

And  the  Orange  will  decay, 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 

Oh,  the  French  are  in  the  bay, 
They  '11  be  here  by  break  of  day, 
And  the  Orange  will  decay, 
Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 


150  SHAN  -VAN  VOCHT. 

And  where  will  they  have  their  camp  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht ; 
Where  will  they  have  their  camp  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 
On  the  Currach  of  Kildare ; 
The  boys  they  will  he  there 
With  their  pikes  in  good  repair, 
Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 
To  the  Currach  of  Kildare 
The  hoys  they  will  repair, 
And  Lord  Edward  will  be  there, 
Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 

Then  what  will  the  yeoman  do  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht ; 
What  will  the  yeoman  do  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 
What  should  the  yeoman  do, 
But  throw  off  the  red  and  blue, 
And  swear  that  they  '11  be  true 
To  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 

What  should  the  yeoman  do, 
But  throw  off  the  red  and  blue, 
And  swear  that  they  '11  be  true 
To  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 


And  what  color  will  they  wear  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht ; 
What  color  will  they  wear  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 
What  color  should  be  seen, 
Where  our  fathers'  homes  have  been, 
But  our  own  immortal  green  ? 


THE   CAVALIER'S   SONG.  151 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 
What  color  should  be  seen, 
Where  our  fathers'  homes  have  been, 
But  our  own  immortal  green  ? 
Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 

And  will  Ireland  then  be  free  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht ; 
Will  Ireland  then  be  free  ? 

Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 
Yes,  Ireland  shall  be  free, 
From  the  centre  to  the  sea ; 
Then  hurrah  for  liberty, 
Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 
Yes,  Ireland  shall  be  free, 
From  the  centre  to  the  sea ; 
Then  hurrah  for  liberty, 
Says  the  Shan  Van  Vocht. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE  CAVALIER'S   SONG. 

A  STEED  —  a  steed  of  matchlesse  speed, 

A  sword  of  metal  keene ! 
All  else  to  noble  heartes  is  drosse, 

All  else  on  earth  is  meane. 
The  neighyinge  of  the  war-horse  prowde, 

The  rowlinge  of  the  drum, 
The  clangor  of  the  trumpet  lowde, 

Be  soundes  from  heaven  that  come ; 
And  oh,  the  thundering  presse  of  knightes, 

Whenas  their  war-cryes  swell, 


SONG   OF   THE    GALLEY. 

May  tole  from  heaven  an  angel  bright, 
And  rouse  a  fiend  from  hell. 

Then  mounte  —  then  mounte,  brave  gallants,  all, 

And  don  your  helmes  amaine ; 
Deathe's  couriers,  Fame  and  Honor,  call 

Us  to  the  field  againe. 
No  shrewish  teares  shall  fill  our  eye 

When  the  sword-hilt  's  in  our  hand,  — 
Heart-whole  we  '11  part,  and  no  whit  sighe 

For  the  fayrest  of  the  land. 
Let  piping  swaine  and  craven  wight 

Thus  weepe  and  puling  crye  ; 
Our  business  is  like  men  to  fight, 

And  hero-like  to  die. 

WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL. 


SONG   OF   THE   GALLEY. 

YE  mariners  of  Spain, 

Bend  strongly  on  your  oars, 
And  bring  my  love  again, 

For  he  lies  among  the  Moors. 

Ye  galleys  fairly  built, 
Like  cockles  on  the  sea, 

Oh,  great  will  be  your  guilt 
If  ye  bring  him  not  to  me. 

Lift  up,  lift  up  your  sail, 
And  bend  upon  your  oars ; 

Oh,  lose  not  the  fair  gale, 

For  he  lies  among  the  Moors. 


THE  MEETING   OF   THE   WATERS.  153 

It  is  a  narrow  strait, 

I  see  the  blue  hills  over ; 
Your  coming  I  '11  await, 

And  thank  you  for  my  lover. 

To  Mary  I  will  pray, 

While  ye  bend  upon  your  oars ; 
'T  will  be  a  blessed  day, 

If  ye  fetch  him  from  the  Moors. 

LOCKHART. 
Sung  by  F.  K.  and  Mrs.  A.  F.  W. 


THE   MEETING   OF   THE   WATEES. 

THERE  is  not  in  the  wide  world  a  valley  so  sweet 
As  that  vale  in  whose  bosom  the  bright  waters  meet ; 
Oh,  the  last  rays  of  feeling  and  life  must  depart, 
Ere  the  bloom  of  that  valley  shall  fade  from  my  heart ! 

Yet  it  was  not  that  Nature  had  shed  o'er  the  scene 
Her  purest  of  crystal  and  brightest  of  green ; 
'T  was  not  her  soft  magic  of  streamlet  or  hill,  — 
Oh,  no  !  it  was  something  more  exquisite  still. 

'T  was  that  friends,  the  beloved  of  my  bosom,  were  near, 
Who  made  every  dear  scene  of  enchantment  more  dear, 
And  who  felt  how  the  best  charms  of  Nature  improve 
When  we  see  them  reflected  from  looks  that  we  love. 

Sweet  vale  of  Avoca !  how  calm  could  I  rest 

In  thy  bosom  of  shade  with  the  friends  I  love  best, 

Where  the  storms  that  we  feel  in  this  cold  world  should  cease, 

And  our  hearts,  like  thy  waters,  be  mingled  in  peace. 

M.  P.  F."  MooRE- 


154  THE  LEGACY. 


THE   LEGACY. 

WHEN  in  death  I  shall  calm  recline, 

Oh,  bear  my  heart  to  my  mistress  dear  ! 
Tell  her  it  lived  upon  smiles  and  wine 

Of  the  brightest  hue  while  it  lingered  here. 
Bid  her  not  shed  one  tear  of  sorrow, 

To  sully  a  heart  so  brilliant  and  light ; 
But  balmy  drops  of  the  red  grape  borrow, 

To  bathe  the  relic  from  morn  till  night. 

When  the  light  of  my  song  is  o'er, 

Then  take  my  harp  to  your  ancient  hall ; 
Hang  it  up  at  that  friendly  door 

Where  weary  travellers  love  to  call. 
Then  if  some  bard,  who  roams  forsaken, 

Revive  its  soft  note  in  passing  along, 
Oh,  let  one  thought  of  its  master/  waken 

Your  warmest  smile  for  the  child  of  song. 

Keep  this  cup,  which  is  now  o'erflowing, 

To  grace  your  revel  when  I  'm  at  rest ; 
Never,  oh,  never  its  balm  bestowing 

On  lips  that  beauty  hath  seldom  blessed. 
But  wrhen  some  warm,  devoted  lover 

To  her  he  adores  shall  bathe  its  brim, 
Then,  then  my  spirit  around  shall  hover,* 

And  hallow  each  drop  that  foams  for  him. 

MOORE. 


IVRY. 


155 


IVEY. 

A   SONG   OF   THE   HUGUENOTS. 

Now  glory  to  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  from  whom  all  glories  are, 
And  glory  to  our  Sovereign  Liege,  King  Henry  of  Navarre. 
Now  let  there  be  the  merry  sound  of  music  and  of  dance, 
Through  thy  cornfields  green,  and  sunny  vines,  0  pleasant  land 

of  France  ! 

And  thou,  Eochelle,  our  own  Eochelle,  proud  city  of  the  waters, 
Again  let  rapture  light  the  eyes  of  all  thy  mourning  daughters ; 
As  thou  wert  constant  in  our  ills,  be  joyous  in  our  joy, 
For  cold  and  stiff  and  still  they  are  who  wrought  thy  walls 

annoy. 

Hurrah,  hurrah !  a  single  field  hath  turned  the  chance  of  war. 
Hurrah,  hurrah,  for  Ivry,  and  Henry  of  Navarre  ! 


Eight  well  fought  all  the  Frenchmen  who  fought  for  France 

to-day, 

And  many  a  lordly  banner  God  gave  them  for  a  prey ; 
But  we  of  the  religion  have  borne  us  best  in  fight, 
And  the  good  Lord  of  Eosny  hath  ta'en  the  cornet  white  — 
Our  own  true  Maximilian  the  cornet  white  hath  ta'en, 
The  cornet  white  with  crosses  black,  the  flag  of  false  Lorraine. 
Up  with  it  high ;  unfurl  it  wide,  that  all  the  host  may  know 
How  God  hath  humbled  the  proud  house  which  wrought  his 

church  such  woe% 
Then  on  the  ground,  while  trumpets  sound  their  loudest  point 

of  war, 
Fling  the  red  shreds,  a  footcloth  meet  for  Henry  of  Navarre. 


156  THE  MINSTREL  BOY. 

Ho,  maidens  of  Vienna !  ho,  matrons  of  Lucerne ! 

Weep,  weep,  and  rend  your  hair  for  those  who  never  shall 
return. 

Ho,  Philip !  send  for  charity  thy  Mexican  pistoles, 

That  Antwerp  monks  may  sing  a  mass  for  thy  poor  spearmen's 
souls. 

Ho,   gallant  'nobles   of   the  league !  look   that   your   arms   be 
bright ; 

Ho,   burghers    of  Saint  Genevieve !  keep  watch  and  ward  to- 
night. 

For  our  God  hath  crushed  the  tyrant,  our  God  hath  raised  the 
slave, 

And  mocked  the  counsel  of  the  wise,  and  the  valor  of  the  brave. 

Then  glory  to  His  holy  name,  from  whom  all  glories  are, 

And  glory  to  our  Sovereign  Lord,  King  Henry  of  Navarre. 

MACAU  LAY. 


THE  MINSTEEL  BOY. 

THE  Minstrel  boy  to  the  war  is  gone, 

In  the  ranks  of  death  you  '11  find  him ; 
His  father's  sword  he  has  girded  on, 

And  his  wild  harp  slung  behind  him. 
"  Land  of  song,"  said  the  warrior  bard, 

"  Though  all  the  world  betrays  thee, 
One  sword,  at  least,  thy  rights  shall  guard, 

One  faithful  harp  shall  praise  thee." 

The  Minstrel  fell,  —  but  the  foeman's  chain 
Could  not  bring  his  proud  soul  under ; 

The  harp  he  loved  ne'er  spoke  again, 
For  he  tore  its  cords  asunder, 


THE   LAY  OF  ELENA.  157 

And  said,  "  No  chains  shall  sully  thee, 

Thou  soul  of  love  and  bravery  ! 
Thy  songs  were  made  for  the  brave  and  free, 

They  shall  never  sound  in  slavery." 

MOORE. 


THE   LAY  OF  ELENA. 

HE  asked  me.  had  I  yet  forgot 

The  mountains  of  my  native  land ; 

I  sought  an  answer,  but  had  not 
The  words  at  my  command. 

They  would  not  come,  and  it  was  better  so ; 

For  had  I  uttered  aught,  my  tears,  I  know, 

Had  started  at  the  word  as  free  to  flow. 

But  I  can  answer  when  there  's  none  that  hears ; 
And  now,  if  I  should  weep,  none  sees  my  tears ; 
And  in  my  soul  the  voice  is  rising  strong 
That  speaks  in  solitude,  —  the  voice  of  song. 

Yes,  I  remember  well 

The  land  of  many  hues, 
Whose  charms  what  praise  can  tell, 

Whose  praise  what  heart  refuse  ? 
Sublime,  but  neither  bleak  nor  bare 
Nor  misty,  are  the  mountains  there,  — 
Softly  sublime,  profusely  fair. 
Up  to  their  summits  clothed  in  green, 
And  fruitful  as  the  vales  between, 
They  lightly  rise 
And  scale  the  skies, 


158  THE  LAY  OF  ELENA. 

And  groves  and  gardens  still  abound. 
For  where  no  shoot 
Could  else  take  root, 

The  peaks  are  shelved  and  terra  ced-rqunJ. 
Earthward  appear  in  mingled  growth 

The  mulberry  and  maize ;  above, 
The  trellised  vine  extends  to  both 

The  leafy  shade  they  love. 
Looks  out  the  white-walled  cottage  here, 
The  lowly  chapel  rises  near  ; 
Far  down  the  foot  must  roam  to  reach 
The  lovely  lake  and  bending  beech, 
Whilst  chestnut  green  and  olive  gray 
Checker  the  steep  and  winding  way. 

A  bark  is  launched  on  Como's  lake, 

A  maiden  sits  abaft ; 
A  little  sail  is  loosed  to  take 

The  night  wind's  breath,  and  waft 
The  maiden  and  her  bark  away, 
Across  the  lake  and  up  the  bay. 
And  what  doth  there  that  lady  fair, 

Upon  the  wavelet  tossed  ? 
Before  her  shines  the  evening  star, 
Behind  her  in  the  woods  afar 

The  castle  lights  are  lost. 
What  doth  she  there  ?     The  evening  air 
Lifts  her  locks,  and  her  neck  is  bare  ; 
And  the  dews  that  now  are  falling  fast 
May  work  her  harm,  or  a  rougher  blast 

May  come  from  yonder  cloud,  — 
And  that  her  bark  might  scarce  sustain, 
So  slightly  built,  —  and  why  remain  ? 

And  would  she  be  allowed 


THE  LAY  OF  ELENA.  159 

To  brave  the  wind  and  sit  in  the  dew 

At  night  on  the  lake,  if  her  mother  knew  ? 

Her  mother,  sixteen  years  before, 

The  burden  of  the  baby  bore ; 

And  though  brought  forth  in  joy,  the  day 

So  joyful,  she  was  wont  to  say, 

In  taking  count  of  after  years, 

Gave  birth  to  fewer  hopes  than  fears. 

For  seldom  smiled 

The  serious  child ; 

And  as  she  passed  from  childhood,  grew 
More  far-between  those  smiles  and  few, 

More  sad  and  wild. 
And  though  she  loved  her  father  well, 

And  though  she  loved  her  mother  more, 
Upon  her  heart  a  sorrow  fell 
And  sapped  it  to  the  core. 
And  in  her  father's  castle  nought 
She  ever  found  of  what  she  sought, 
And  all  her  pleasure  was  to  roam 
Among  the  mountains  far  from  home, 
And  through  thick  woods,  and  wheresoe'er 
She  saddest  felt  to  sojourn  there ; 
And,  oh !  she  loved  to  linger  afloat 
On  the  lonely  lake  in  the  little  boat. 
It  was  not  for  the  forms,  —  though  fair, 
Though  grand  they  were  beyond  compare,  — 
It  was  not  only  for  the  forms 
Of  hills  in  sunshine  or  in  storms, 
Or  only  unrestrained  to  look 
On  wood  and  lake,  that  she  forsook, 

By  day  or  night, 
Her  home,  and  far 


160  THE    VALE   OF  CASHMERE. 

Wandered  by  light 
Of  sun  or  star,  — 
It  was  to  feel  her  fancy  free, 

Free  in  a  world  without  an  end, 
With  ears  to  hear,  and  eyes  to  see, 

And  heart  to  apprehend ; 
It  was  to  leave  the  earth  behind, 
And  rove  with  liberated  mind, 
As  fancy  led,  or  choice,  or  chance, 
Through  'wildered  regions  of  romance. 

HENRY  TAYLOR,  Philip  Van  Artevelde. 


THE  VALE   OF   CASHMEEE. 

WHO  has  not  heard  of  the  Vale  of  Cashmere, 

With  its  roses  the  brightest  that  earth  ever  gave, 
Its  temples,  and  grottos,  and  fountains  as  clear 

As  the  love-lighted  eyes  that  hang  over  their  wave  ? 
Oh,  to  see  it  at  sunset,  when  warm  o'er  the  lake 

Its  splendor  at  parting  a  summer  eve  throws, 
Like  a  bride,  full  of  blushes,  when  lingering  to  take 

A  last  look  of  her  mirror  at  night  ere  she  goes ; 
When  the  shrines  through  the  foliage  are  gleaming  half  shown, 
And  each  hallows  the  hour  by  some  rites  of  its  own. 

Here  the  music  of  prayer  from  a  minaret  swells, 

Here  the  Magian  his  urn  full  of  perfume  is  swinging, 

And  here  at  the  altar  a  zone  of  sweet  bells 

Round  the  waist  of  some  fair  Indian  dancer  is  ringing. 

Or  to  see  it  by  moonlight,  when  mellowly  shines 

The  light  o'er  its  palaces,  gardens,  and  shrines ; 


THE   VALE   OF  CASHMERE.  161 

When  the  waterfalls  gleam  like  a  quick  fall  of  stars, 
And  the  nightingale's  hymn  from  the  Isle  of  Cheuars 
Is  broken  by  laughs  and  light  echoes  of  feet 
From  the  cool,  shining  walks  where  the  young  people  meet. 

But  the  gentlest  of  all  are  those  sounds,  full  of  feeling, 

That  soft  from  the  lute  of  some  lover  are  stealing,  — 

Some  lover  who  knows  all  the  heart-touching  power 

Of  a  lute  and  a  sigh  in  this  magical  hour. 

Oh,  best  of  delights  as  it  everywhere  is 

To  be  near  the  loved  one,  what  a  rapture  is  his 

Who  in  moonlight  and  music  thus  sweetly  may  glide 

O'er  the  Lake  of  Cashmere,  with  that  one  by  his  side ! 

If  woman  can  make  the  worst  wilderness  dear, 

Think,  think  what  a  heaven  she  must  make  of  Cashmere. 

So  felt  the  magnificent  Son  of  Acbar, 

When  from  power  and  pomp  and  the  trophies  of  war 

He  flew  to  that  valley,  forgetting  them  all 

With  the  Light  of  the  Harem,  his  young  Nourmahal ; 

When  free  and  uncrowned  as  the  conqueror  roved 

By  the  banks  of  that  lake,  with  his  only  beloved, 

He  saw,  in  the  wreaths  she  would  playfully  snatch 

From  the  hedges,  a  glory  his  crown  could  not  match, 

And  preferred  in  his  heart  the  least  ringlet  that  curled 

Down  her  exquisite  neck  to  the  throne  of  the  world. 

There 's  a  beauty  forever  unchangingly  bright, 
Like  the  long,  sunny  lapse  of  a  summer  day's  light ; 
Shining  on,  shining  on,  by  no  shadows  made  tender, 
Till  Love  falls  asleep  in  its  sameness  of  splendor. 
This  was  not  the  beauty  —  oh,  nothing  like  this  — 
That  to  young  Xourmahal  gave  such. magic  of  bliss; 
But  that  loveliness,  ever  in  motion,  which  plays 

11 


162  BEFORE   THE  BATTLE. 

Like  the  light  upon  autumn's  soft  shadowy  days, 
Now  here  and  now  there,  giving  warmth  as  it  flies 
From  the  lips  to  the  cheek,  from  the  cheek  to  the  eyes, 
Now  melting  in  mist  and  now  breaking  in  gleams, 
Like  the  glimpses  a  saint  has  of  heaven  in  his  dreams. 

When  pensive,  it  seemed  as  if  that  very  grace, 

That  charm  of  all  others,  was  born  with  her  face ; 

And  when  angry,  —  for  e'en  in  the  tranquillest  climes 

Light  breezes  will  ruffle  the  flowers  sometimes,— 

The  short,  passing  anger  but  seemed  to  awaken 

New  beauty,  like  flowers  that  are  sweetest  when  shaken. 

If  tenderness  touched  her,  the  dark  of  her  eye 

At  once  took  a  darker;  a  heavenlier  dye, 

From  the  depths  of  whose  shadow,  like  holy  revealings 

From  innermost  shrines,  came  the  light  of  her  feelings. 

Then  her  mirth  —  oh,  't  was  sportive  as  ever  took  wing 

From  the  heart  with  a  burst,  like  the  wild-bird  in  spring. 

MOORE,  Light  of  the  Harem. 


BEFORE  THE  BATTLE. 

BY  the  hope  within  us  springing, 

Herald  of  to-morrow's  strife ; 
By  that  sun  whose  light  is  bringing 

Chains  or  freedom,  death  or  life, — 
Oh,  remember  life  can  be 
No  charm  for  him  who  lives  not  free ! 

Like  the  day-star  in  the  wave, 

Sinks  a  hero  in  his  grave, 
'Midst  the  dew-fall  of  a  nation's  tears. 

MOORE. 


IT  IS    THIS,   IT  IS    THIS.  163 


FLY  TO   THE   DESERT. 

FLY  to  the  desert,  fly  with  me, 
Our  Arab  tents  are  rude  for  thee ; 
But,  oh  !  the  choice  what  heart  can  doubt 
Of  tents  with  love,  or  thrones  without  ? 

Our  rocks  are  rough  ;  but  smiling  there 
.    The  acacia  waves  her  yellow  hair, 
Lonely  and  sweet,  nor  loved  the  less 
For  flowering  in  a  wilderness.  , 

Our  sands  are  bare ;  but  down  their  slope 
The  silvery-footed  antelope 
As  gracefully  and  gayly  springs 
As  o'er  the  marble  courts  of  kings. 

Then  come,  —  thy  Arab  maid  will  be 
The  loved  and  lone  acacia-tree  ; 
The  antelope,  whose  feet  shall  bless 
With  their  light  sound  thy  loneliness. 

MOORE,  Light  of  the  Harem- 

IT   IS  THIS,   IT   IS   THIS. 

THERE  's  a  bliss  beyond  all  that  the  minstrel  has  told, 
When  two,  that  are  linked  in  one  heavenly  tie, 

With  heart  never  changing,  and  brow  never  cold, 
Love  on  through  all  ills,  and  love  on  till  they  die. 

One  hour  of  a  passion  so  sacred  is  worth 

Whole  ages  of  heartless  and  wandering  bliss ; 
And,  oh,  if  there  be  an  Elysium  on  earth, 

It  is  this,  it  is  this. 

MOORE,  Light  of  the  Harem. 


164  MAN'S  MORTALITY. 


THE   FOKTUNATE   LAND. 

KNOW'ST  thou  the  land  where  hangs  the  citron-flower, 
Where  gleams  the  golden  orange  in  the  bower, 
Where  gentle  zephyrs  in  the  blue  sky  play, 
And  myrtles  creep  beneath  the  towering  bay  ? 

Know'st  thou,  indeed? 

Oh,  there,  oh,  there, 
Would  I  with  thee,  my  best  beloved,  speed. 

Know'st  thou  the  house  that  rests  on  columns  tall, 
Its  gay  saloon,  its  glittering  banquet-hall, 
Where  marble  statues  stand  and  gaze  on  me  ? 
What  have  they  done,  thou  hapless  child,  to  thee  ? 

Know'st  thou,  indeed  ? 

Oh,  there,  oh,  there, 
Would  I  with  thee,  my  own  kind  guardian,  speed. 

Know'st  thou  the  mount,  and  its  cloud-crested  steep, 
Where  poring  mules  the  misty  pathway  keep, 
In  caves  the  dragon  hides  her  ancient  brood, 
Down  leaps  the  rock,  and  over  it  the  flood  ? 

Know'st  thou,  indeed  ? 

Oh,  there,  oh,  there, 
Our  journey  tends ;  my  father,  let  us  speed. 

GOETHE. 


MAN'S  MORTALITY. 

LIKE  as  the  damask  rose  you  see, 
Or  like  the  blossom  on  the  tree, 
Or  like  the  dainty  flower  in  May, 
Or  like  the  morning  of  the  day, 


THE  BELFRY  PIGEON.  165 

Or  like  the  sun,  or  like  the  shade, 
Or  like  the  gourd  which  Jonas  had,  — 
E'en  such  is  man,  whose  thread  is  spun, 
Drawn  out,  and  cut,  and  so  is  done. 
The  rose  withers,  the  blossom  blasteth  ; 
The  flower  fades,  the  morning  hasteth  ; 
The  sun  sets,  the  shadow  flies  ; 
The  gourd  consumes,  and  man  he  dies. 

Like  to  the  grass  that 's  newly  sprung, 
Or  like  a  tale  that 's  new  begun, 
Or  like  the  bird  that 's  here  to-day, 
Or  like  the  pearled  dew  of  May, 
Or  like  an  hour,  or  like  a  span, 
Or  like  the  singing  of  a  swan,  — 
E'en  such  is  man,  who  lives  by  breath, 
Is  here,  now  there,  in  life  and  death. 
The  grass  withers,  the  tale  is  ended ; 
The  bird  is  flown,  the  dew 's  ascended ; 
The  hour  is  short,  the  span  is  long ; 
The  swan 's  near  death,  man's  life  is  done. 

SIMON  WASTELL. 


THE   BELFRY  PIGEON. 

ON  the  cross-beam  under  the  Old  South  bell 
The  .nest  of  a  pigeon  is  builded  well ; 
In  summer  and  winter  that  bird  is  there, 
Out  and  in  with  the  morning  air. 
I  love  to  see  him  track  the  street, 
With  his  wary  eye  and  active  feet ; 
And  I  often  watch  him  as  he  springs, 
Circling  the  steeple  with  easy  wings, 


166  THE  BELFRY  PIGEON. 

Till  across  the  dial  his  shade  has  passed, 

And  the  belfry  edge  is  gained  at  last. 

'T  is  a  bird  I  love,  with  its  brooding  note, 

And  the  trembling  throb  in  its  mottled  throat : 

There  's  a  human  look  in  its  swelling  breast, 

And  the  gentle  curve  of  its  lowly  crest ; 

And  I  often  stop  with  the  fear  I  feel,  — 

He  runs  so  close  to  the  rapid  wheel. 

Whatever  is  rung  on  that  noisy  bell,  — 

Chime  of  the  hour  or  funeral  knell,  — 

The  dove  in  the  belfry  must  hear  it  well. 

When  the  tongue  swings  out  to  the  midnight  moon, 

When  the  sexton  cheerily  rings  for  noon, 

When  the  clock  strikes  clear  at  morning  light, 

When  the  child  is  waked  with  "  nine  at  night," 

When  the  chimes  play  soft  in  the  Sabbath  air, 

Filling  the  spirit  with  tones  of  prayer,  — 

Whatever  tale  in  the  bell  is  heard, 

He  broods  on  his  folded  feet  unstirred, 

Or,  rising  half  in  his  rounded  nest, 

He  takes  the  time  to  smooth  his  breast, 

Then  drops  again  with  filmed  eyes, 

And  sleeps  as  the  last  vibration  dies. 

Sweet  bird !  I  would  that  I  could  be 

A  hermit  in  the  crowd  like  thee  ! 

With  wings  to  fly  to  wood  and  glen, 

Thy  lot,  like  mine,  is  cast  with  men, 

And  daily,  with  unwilling  feet, 

I  tread,'  like  thee,  the  crowded  street ; 

But,  unlike  ine,  when  day  is  o'er, 

Thou  canst  dismiss  the  world  and  soar, 

Or,  at  a  half-felt  wish  for  rest, 

Canst  smooth  the  feathers  on  thy  breast, 

And  drop,  forgetful,  to  thy  nest. 


A    HEALTH.  167 

I  would  that  in  such  wings  of  gold 

I  could  my  weary  heart  unfold ; 

I  would  I  could  look  down  unmoved 

(Unloving  as  I  am  unloved), 

And  while  the  world  throngs  on  beneath, 

Smooth  down  my  cares  and  calmly  breathe, 

And,  never  sad  with  others'  sadness, 

And  never  glad  with  others'  gladnass, 

Listen,  unstirred,  to  knell  or  chime, 

And,  lapped  in  quiet,  bide  my  time. 

WILLIS. 


A   HEALTH. 

I  FILL  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon ; 
To  whom  the  better  elements 

And  kindly  stars  have  given 
A  form  so  fair,  that,  like  the  air, 

'T  is  less  of  earth  than  heaven. 

Her  every  tone  is  music's  own, 

Like  those  of  morning  birds, 
And  something  more  than  melody 

Dwells  ever  in  her  words ; 
The  coinage  of  her  heart  are, they, 

And  from  her  lips  each  flows, 
As  one  may  see  the  burdened  bee 

Forth  issue  from  the  rose. 


168  SONG   OF   THE  SPIRIT  OF  DAWN. 

Of  her  bright  face  one  glance  will  trace 

A  picture  on  the  brain, 
And  of  her  voice  in  echoing  hearts 

A  sound  must  long  remain  ;    • 
But  memory,  such  as  mine  of  her, 

So  very  much  endears, 
When  death  is  nigh,  my  latest  sigh 

Will  not  be  life's,  but  hers. 

I  fill  this  cup  to  one  made  up 

Of  loveliness  alone, 
A  woman  of  her  gentle  sex 

The  seeming  paragon : 
Her  health  !  and  would  on  earth  there  stood 

Some  more  of  such  a  frame, 
That  life  might  all  be  poetry, 

And  weariness  a  name. 

EDWARD  COATE  PINKNEY. 


Now  on  their  couch  of  rest 

Mortals  are  sleeping, 
While  in  dark  dewy  nest 

Flowerets  are  weeping ; 
Ere  the  last  star  of  night 

Fades  in  the  fountain, 
My  finger  of  rosy  light 

Touches  the  mountain. 

Far  on  his  filmy  wing 
Twilight  is  wending, 

Shadows  encompassing, 
Terrors  attending ; 


SWORD   CHANT  OF    THORSTEIN  RAUDI.  169 

While  my  foot's  fiery  print, 

Up  my  path  showing, 
Gleams  with  celestial  tint 

Brilliantly  glowing. 

Now  from  my  pinions  fair 

Freshness  is  streaming, 
And  from  my  yellow  hair 

Glories  are  gleaming. 
Nature,  with  pure  delight, 

Hails  my  returning, 
And  Sol  from  his  chamber  bright 

Crowns  the  young  morning. 

MRS.  KEMBLE. 


THE  SWORD  CHANT  OF  THOESTEIN  EAUDI. 

'T  is  not  the  gray  hawk's  flight 

O'er  mountain  and  mere  ; 
'T  is  not  the  fleet  hound's  course 

Tracking  the  deer ; 
'T  is  not  the  light  hoof -print 

Of  black  steed  or  gray, 
Though  sweltering  it  gallop 

A  long  summer's  day,  — 
"Which  mete  forth  the  Lordships 
I  challenge  as  mine  ; 
Ha,  ha  !  't  is  the  good  brand 
I  clutch  in  my  strong  hand, 
That  can  their  broad  marches 

And  numbers  define. 
Land-giver,  I  kiss  thee. 


170  SWORD   CHANT  OF  THORSTEIN  RAUDI. 

Dull  builders  of  houses, 

Base  tillers  of  earth, 
Gaping,  ask  me  what  lordships 

I  owned  at  my  birth  ; 
But  the  pale  fools  wax  mute 

When  I  point  with  my  sword 
East,  west,  north,  and  south, 

Shouting,  "  There  am  I  Lord." 
Wold  and  waste,  town  and  tower, 

Hill,  valley,  and  stream, 
Trembling,  bow  to  my  sway 
In  the  fierce  battle-fray, 
When  the  star  that  rules  fate  is 

This  falchion's  red  gleam. 
Might-giver,  I  kiss  thee. 

I  Ve  heard  great  harps  sounding 

In  brave  bower  and  hall,   . 
I  Ve  drank  the  sweet  music 

That  bright  lips  let  fall,' 
I  Ve  hunted  in  greenwood 

And  heard  small  birds  sing  ; 
But  away  with  this  idle 

And  cold  jargoning : 
The  music  I  love,  is 

The  shout  of  the  brave, 
The  yell  of  the  dying, 
The  scream  of  the  flying, 
When  this  arm  wields  death's  sickle, 

And  garners  the  grave. 
Joy-giver,  I  kiss  thee. 

Far  isles  of  the  ocean 

Thy  lightning  have  known, 


THE  SWORD  CHANT  OF  THORSTEIN  RAUDI.       171 

And  wide  o'er  the  mainland 

Thy  horrors  have  shown. 
Great  sword  of  my  father, 

Stern  joy  of  his  hand, 
Thou  hast  carved  his  name  deep  on 

The  stranger's  red  strand, 
And  won  him  the  glory 

Of  undying  song. 
Keen  cleaver  of  gay  crests, 
Sliarp  piercer  of  broad  breasts, 
Grim  slayer  of  heroes, 

And  scourge  of  the  strong  ! 
Fame-giver,  I  kiss  thee. 

In  a  love  more  abiding 

Than  that  the  heart  knows 
For  maiden  more  lovely 

Than  summer's  first  rose, 
My  heart 's  knit  to  thine, 

And  lives  but  for  thee ; 
.  In  dreamings  of  gladness, 

Thou  'rt  dancing  with  me 
Brave  measures  of  madness 

In  some  battle-field, 

t 

Where  armor  is  ringing, 
And  noble  blood  springing, 
And  cloven,  yawn  helmet, 

Stout  hauberk  and  shield. 
Death-giver,  I  kiss  thee. 

When  the  path  of  our  glory 

Is  shadowed  in  death, 
With  me  thou  wilt  slumber 

Below  the  brown  heath ; 
Thou  wilt  rest  on  my  bosom, 


172  THE    BROTHERS. 


And  with  it  decay,  — 
While  harps  shall  be  ringing, 
And 'scalds  shall  be  singing, 
The  deeds  we  have  done  in  • 

Our  old  fearless  day. 
Song-giver,  I  kiss  thee. 

WILLIAM  MOTHERWELL. 


THE    BEOTHEES. 

WE  are  but  two,  —  the  others  sleep 
Through  Death's  untroubled  night ; 

We  are  but  two,  —  oh,  let  us  keep 
The  link  that  binds  us  bright! 

Heart  leaps  to  heart,  —  the  sacred  flood 

That  warms  us  is  the  same ; 
That  good  old  man,  —  his  honest  blood 

Alike  we  fondly  claim. 

We  in  one  mother's  arms  were  locked,  — - 

Long  be  her  love  repaid ! 
In  the  same  cradle  we  were  rocked, 

Eound  the  same  hearth  we  played. 

Our  boyish  sports  were  all  the  same, 

Each  little  joy  and  woe ; 
Let  manhood  keep  alive  the  flame, 

Lit  up  so  long  ago. 

We  are  but  two,  —  be  that  the  band 

To  hold  us  till  we  die ; 
Shoulder  to  shoulder  let  us  stand, 

Till  side  by  side  we  lie. 

CHARLES  SPRAGUE. 


A    SPIRIT   THERE  IS.  173 


THEEE'S   A   BOWEK   OF   ROSES. 

THERE  's  a  bower  of  roses  by  Bendemeer's  stream, 

And  the  nightingale  sings  round  it  all  the  day  long ; 
In  the  time  of  my  childhood  't  was  like  a  sweet  dream, 

To  sit  in  the  roses  and  hear  the  bird's  song. 
That  bower  and  its  musip  I  never  forget, 

But  oft  when  alone,  in  the  bloom  of  the  year, 
I  think  —  is  the  nightingale  singing  there  yet  ? 

Are  the  -roses  still  bright  by  the  calm  Bendemeer  ? 

No,  —  the  roses  soon  withered  that  hung  o'er  the  wave ; 

But  some  blossoms  were  gathered,  while  freshly  they  shone, 
And  a  dew  was  distilled  from  their  flowers,  that  gave 

All  the  fragrance  of  summer  when  summer  was  gone. 
Thus  memory  draws  from  delight,  ere  it  dies, 

An  essence  that  breathes  of  it  many  a  year  ; 
Thus  bright  to  my  soul,  as  't  was  then  to  my  eyes, 

Is  that  bower  on  the  banks  of  the  calm  Becdemeer. 

MOORE,  Veiled  Prophet  of  Khorassan. 

A  favorite  of  M.  P.  F.    I  remember  it  the  day  the  "  Luconia  "  sailed  from  MACAO 
ROADS,  with  a  gale  of  wind  blowing,  and  I  walking  the  deck. 


A   SPIRIT   THEEE   IS. 

A  SPIRIT  there  is,  whose  fragrant  sigh 
Is  burning  now  through  earth  arid  air : 

Where  cheeks  are  blushing,  the  Spirit  is  nigh ; 
Where  lips  are  meeting,  the  Spirit  is  there. 


174  A    SPIRIT   THERE   IS. 

His  breath  is  the  soul  of  flowers  like  these, 
And  his  floating  eyes  —  oh,  they  resemble 

Blue  water-lilies,  when  the  breeze 

Is  making  the  stream  around  them  tremble. 

Hail  to  thee,  hail  to  thee,  kindling  power ! 

Spirit  of  Love,  Spirit  of  Bliss ! 
Thy  holiest  time  is  the  moonlight  hour, 

And  there  never  was  moonlight  so  sweet  as  this. 

By  the  fair  and  brave, 

Who  blushing  unite, 
Like  the  sun  and  wave 

When  they  meet  at  night ; 

By  the  tear  that  shows 

When  passion  is  nigh, 
As  the  rain-drop  flows 

From  the  heat  of  the  sky ; 

By  the  first  love-beat 

Of  the  youthful  heart, 
By  the  bliss  to  meet, 

And  the  pain  to  part,  — 

By  all  that  thou  hast 

To  mortals  given, 
Which  —  oh,  could  it  last, 

This  earth  were  heaven  !  — 

We  call  thee  hither,  entrancing  power, 

Spirit  of  Love,  Spirit  of  Bliss  ! 
Thy  holiest  time  is  the  moonlight  hour, 

And  there  never  was  moonlight  so  sweet  as  this. 

MOORE,  Veiled  Prophet  of  Khorassan. 


THE    CONFLICT.  175 


THE  CONFLICT. 

TWICE  hath  the  sun  upon  their  conflict  set, 

And  risen  again,  and  found  them  grappling  yet ; 

While  streams  of  carnage,  in  his  noontide  blaze, 

Smoke  up  to  heaven  —  hot  as  that  crimson  haze, 

By  which  the  prostrate  caravan  is  awed, 

In  the  red  Desert,  when  the  wind  's  abroad. 

"  On,  Swords  of  God  ! "  the  panting  Caliph  calls,  — 

"  Thrones  for  the  living,  heaven  for  him  who  falls." 

"  On,  brave  avengers,  on,"  Mokanna  cries, 

"  And  Eblis  blast  the  recreant  .slave  that  flies  !" 

Now  comes  the  brunt,  the  crisis  of  the  day ; 

They  clash,  they  strive,  the  Caliph's  troops  give  way. 

Mokanna's  self  plucks  the  black  banner  down, 

And  now  the  Orient  world's  imperial  crown 

Is  just  within  his  grasp,  when,  hark,  that  shout ! 

Some  hand  hath  checked  the  flying  Moslems'  rout, 

And  now  they  turn,  they  rally,  —  at  their  head 

A  warrior  (like  those  angel  youths,  who  led, 

In  glorious  panoply  of  heaven's  own  mail, 

The  champions  of  the  Faith  through  Beder's  vale), 

Bold  as  if  gifted  with  ten  thousand  lives, 

Turns  on  the  fierce  pursuers'  blades,  and  drives 

At  once  the  multitudinous  torrent  back, 

While  hope  and  courage  kindle  in  his  track, 

And  at  each  step  his  bloody  falchion  makes 

Terrible  vistas  through  which  victory  breaks. 

In  vain  Mokanna,  'midst  the  general  flight, 

Stands,  like  the  red  moon  on  some  stormy  night, 

Among  the  fugitive  clouds  that,  hurrying  by, 

Leave  only  her  unshaken  in  the  sky. 


176  /  SAW  FROM   THE  BEACH. 

In  vain  he  yells  liis  desperate  curses  out, 
Deals  death  promiscuously  to  all  about, 
To  foes  that  charge  and  coward  friends  that  fly, 
And  seems  of  all  the  great  Arch-enemy.  •  • 
The  panic  spreads  —  "A  miracle,"  throughout 
The  Moslem  ranks,  "  a  miracle ! "  they  shout, 
All  gazing  on  that  youth,  whose  coming  seems 
A  light,  a  glory,  such  as  breaks  in  dreams ; 
And  every  sword,  true  as  o'er  billows  dim 
The  needle  tracks  the  loadstar,  following  him. 

Eight  towards  Mokanna  now  he  cleaves  his  path, 
Impatient  cleaves,  as  though  the  bolt  of  wrath 
He  bears  from  heaven  withheld  its  awful  burst 
From  weaker  heads,  and  souls  but  half-way  curst, 
To  break  o'er  him,  the  mightiest  and  the  worst ! 
But  vain  his  speed,  —  though,  in  that  hour  of  blood, 
Had  all  God's  seraphs  round  Mokanna  stood, 
With  swords  of  fire,  ready  like  fate  to  fall, 
Mokanna' s  soul  would  have  defied  them  all ; 
Yet  now  the  rush  of  fugitives,  too  strong 
For  hrynan  force,  hurries  even  him  along ; 
In  vain  he  struggles  'mid  the  wedged  array 
Of  flying  thousands,  —  he  is  borne  away. 

MOOEE,  Veiled  Prophet  of  Khorassan. 


I   SAW  FEOM   THE   BEACH. 

I  SAW  from  the  beach,  when  the  morning  was  shining, 
A  bark  o'er  the  waters  move  gloriously  on. 

I  came  when  the  sun  o'er  that  beach  was  declining ; 
The  bark  was  still  there,  but  the  waters  were  gone. 


THE   TIME  I'VE  LOST  IN   WOOING.  Ill 

And  such  is  the  fate  of  our  life's  early  promise, 
So  passing  the  spring-tide  of  joy  we  have  known ; 

Each  wave,  that  we  danced  on  at  morning,  ebbs  from  us, 
And  leaves  us,  at  eve,  on  the  bleak  shore  alone. 

Ne'er  tell  me  of  glories  serenely  adorning 

The  close  of  our  day,  the  calm  eve  of  our  night ;  — 

Give  me  back,  give  me  back,  the  wild  freshness  of  Morning ; 
Her  clouds  and  her  tears  are  worth  Evening's  best  light. 

Oh,  who  would  not  welcome  that  moment's  returning, 

When  passion  first  waked  a  new  life  through  his  frame, 
And  his  soul,  like  the  wood  that  grows  precious  in  burning, 
Gave  out  all  its  sweets  to  love's  exquisite  flame  ? 

MOOEE. 
Sung  by  Mrs.  LONG. 


THE  TIME   I'VE   LOST  IN  "WOOING. 

THE  time  I  've  lost  in  wooing, 
In  watching  and  pursuing 

The  light  that  lies 

In  woman's  eyes, 
Has  been  my  heart's  undoing. 
Though  Wisdom  oft  has  sought  me, 
I  scorned  the  lore  she  brought  me, 

My  only  books 

Were  woman's  looks, 
And  folly  's  all  they  Ve  taught  me. 

Her  smile  when  Beauty  granted, 
I  hung  with  gaze  enchanted, 

Like  him  the  sprite 

Whom  maids  by  night 
Oft  meet  in  glen  that 's  haunted. 
12 


178  SOME  LOVE    TO  ROAM. 

Like  him,  too,  Beauty  won  me  ; 
But  while  her  eyes  were  on  me, 

If  once  their  ray 

Was  turned  away, 
Oh,  winds  could  not  outrun  me ! 

And  are  those  follies  going  ? 
And  is  my  proud  heart  growing 

Too  cold  or  wise 

For  brilliant  eyes 
Again  to  set  it  glowing  ? 
No,  —  vain,  alas  !  the  endeavor 
From  bonds  so  sweet  to  sever ; 

Poor  Wisdom's  chance 

Against  a  glance 
Is  now  as  weak  as  ever. 

MOORE. 

SOME  LOVE  TO   EOAM. 

SOME  love  to  roam  o'er  the  dark  sea  foam, 

Where  the  shrill  winds  whistle  free ; 
But  a  chosen  band  in  a  mountain  land, 

And  a  life  in  the  woods  for  me, 

Where  the  shrill  winds  whistle  free,  — 
But  a  chosen  band  in  a  mountain  land, 

And  a  life  in  the  woods  for  me. 
When  morning  beams,  o'er  the  mountain  streams, 

Oh,  merrily  forth  we  go, 
To  follow  the  stag  to  his  slippery  crag, 

And  to  chase  the  bounding  roe,  — 
To  follow  the  stag  to  his  slippery  crag, 

And  to  chase  the  bounding  roe. 
Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho ! 
Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho  1 


HORATIUS   COCLES.  179 

Some  love  to  roam  o'er  the  dark  sea  foam, 

Where  the  shrill  winds  whistle  free ; 
But  a  chosen  band  in  a  mountain  land, 

And  a  life  in  the  woods  for  me. 

The  deer  we  mark  through  the  forest  dark, 

And  the  prowling  wolf  we  track ; 
And  for  right  good  cheer,  in  the  wild  woods  here, 

Oh,  why  should  a  hunter  lack  ? 
For  with  steady  aim  at  the  bounding  game, 

And  hearts  that  fear  no  foe, 
To  the  darksome  glade,  in  the  forest  shade, 

Oh,  merrily  forth  we  go  ! 

Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho  ! 
Ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho,  ho ! 
Some  love  to  roam  o'er  the  dark  sea  foam, 

Where  the  shrill  winds  whistle  free ; 
But  a  chosen  band  in  a  mountain  land, 

And  a  life  in  the  woods  for  me. 

CHARLES  MACKAY. 
A  favorite  of  W.  H.  H.,  NAUSHON. 


HOKATIUS   COCLES. 

WHEN  the  oldest  cask  is  opened, 

And  tlie  largest  lamp  is  lit ; 
When  the  chestnuts  glow  in  the  embers, 

And  the  kid  turns  on  the  spit ; 
When  young  and  old  in  circle 

Around  the  firebrands  close ; 
When  the  girls  are  weaving  baskets, 

And  the  lads  are  shaping  bows ; 


180     BELIEVE  ME,  IF  ALL   THOSE  ENDEARING,  ETC. 

When  the  goodman  mends  his  armor, 

And  trims  his  helmet's  plume  ; 
When  the  goodwife's  shuttle  merrily 

Goes  flashing  through  the  loom,  — - 
With  weeping  and  with  laughter 

Still  is  the  story  told, 
How  well  Horatius  kept  the  bridge 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

MACAULAY. 


BELIEVE  ME,   IF  ALL  THOSE  ENDEAKING 
YOUNG   CHARMS. 

BELIEVE  me,  if  all  those  endearing  young  charms, 

Which  I  gaze  on  so  fondly  to-day, 
Were  to  change  by  to-morrow,  and  fleet  in  my  arms, 

Like  fairy-gifts  fading  away, 
Thou  wouldst  still  be  adored,  as  this  moment  thou  art. 

Let  thy  loveliness  fade  as  it  will, 
And  around  the  dear  ruin  each  wish  of  my  heart 

Would  entwine  itself  verdantly  still. 

It  is  not  while  beauty  and  youth  are  thine  own, 

And  thy  cheeks  unprofaned  by  a  tear, 
That  the  fervor  and  faith  of  a  soul  can  be  known, 

To  which  time  will  but  make  thee  more  dear ; 
No,  the  heart  that  has  truly  loved  never  forgets, 

But  as  truly  loves  on  to  the  close, 
As  the  sunflower  turns  on  her  god,  when  he  sets, 

The  same  look  which  she  turned  when  he  rose. 

MOORE. 


THE  PERI  AT   THE   GATE.  181 


THE  PERI  AT  THE   GATE. 

ONE  morn  a  Peri  at  the  gate 
Of  Eden  stood,  disconsolate ; 
And  as  she  listened  to  the  springs 

Of  life  within,  like  music  flowing, 
And  caught  the  light  upon  her  wings 

Through  the  half-open  portal  glowing, 
She  wept  to  think  her  recreant  race 
Should  e'er  have  lost  that  glorious  place. 

"  How  happy,"  exclaimed  this  child  of  air, 
"Are  the  holy  spirits  who  wander  there, 

'Mid  flowers  that  never  shall  fade  or  fall ; 
Though  mine  are  the  gardens  of  earth  and  sea, 
And  the  stars  themselves  have  flowers  for  me, 

One  blossom  of  heaven  outblooms  them  alL 
Though  sunny  the  Lake  of  cool  Cashmere, 
With  its  plane-tree  isle  reflected  clear, 

And  sweetly  the  founts  of  that  valley  fall ; 
Though  bright  are  the  waters  of  Sing-su-hay, 
And  the  golden  floods  that  thitherward  stray,  — 
Yet,  oh,  't  is  only  the  blest  can  say 

How  the  waters  of  heaven  outshine  them  all. 

"  Go,  wing  thy  flight  from  star  to  star, 
From  world  to  luminous  world,  as  far 

As  the  universe  spreads  its  flaming  wall ; 
Take  all  the  pleasures  of  all  the  spheres, 
And  multiply  each  through  endless  years,  — 

One  minute  of  heaven  is  worth  them  all." 

MOORE,  Paradise  and  the  Peri. 


182  JENNY  KISSED  ME. 


RICH  AND   EAEE  WERE   THE   GEMS   SHE  WORE. 

RICH  and  rare  were  the  gems  she  wore, 
And  a  bright  gold  ring  on  her  wand  she  bore ; 
But,  oh,  her  beauty  was  far  beyond 
Her  sparkling  gems  or  snow-white  wand. 

"  Lady,  dost  thou  not  fear  to  stray, 

So  lone  and  lovely,  through  this  bleak  way  ? 

Are  Erin's  sons  so  good  or  so  cold 

As  not  to  be  tempted  by  woman  or  gold  ? " 

"  Sir  Knight,  I  feel  not  the  least  alarm. 

No  son  of  Erin  will  offer  me  harm ; 

For,  though  they  love  women  and  golden  store, 

Sir  Knight,  they  love  honor  and  virtue  more." 

On  she  went,  and  her  maiden  smile 

In  safety  lighted  her  round  the  green  isle ; 

And  blest  forever  is  she  who  relied 

Upon  Erin's  honor  and  Erin's  pride. 

MOORE. 
Sung  by  Mrs.  LONG. 

JENNY   KISSED  MR 

JENNY  kissed  me  when  we  met, 
Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in. 

Time,  you  thief !  who  love  to  get 
Sweets  into  your  list,  put  that  in ! 

Say  I  'm  weary,  say  I  'm  sad ; 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  missed  me ; 

Say  I  'm  growing  old,  but  add  — 

Jenny  kissed  me ! 

LEIGH  HUNT. 


TELL  ME  NOT  OF  JOYS  ABOVE.  183 


TELL  ME   NOT  OF   JOYS  ABOVE. 

TELL  me  not  of  joys  above, 

If  that  world  can  give  no  bliss 
Truer,  happier  than  the  love 

Which  enslaves  our  souls  in  this. 

Tell  me  not  of  Houris'  eyes ; 

Far  from  me  their  dangerous  glow, 
If  those  looks  that  light  the  skies 

Wound  like  some  that  burn  below. 

Who  that  feels  what  love  is  here, 

All  its  falsehood,  all  its  pain, 
Would,  for  even  Elysium's  sphere, 

Risk  the  fatal  dream  again  ? 

Who  that  midst  a  desert's  heat 

Sees  the  waters  fade  away, 
Would  not  rather  die  than  meet 

Streams  again  as  false  as  they  ? 

MOORE,  Lalla  -Rookh. 


NURSERY  RHYME. 

HAKK  !  the  little  drummer  beats  to  bed ; 
See !  the  little  fifer  hangs  his  head ; 
Still  and  mute  is  the  Moorish  flute, 
And  nodding  guards  watch  wearily. 

Oh,  then  shall  we, 

From  prison  free, 
March  on  by  moonlight  cheerily. 

ANONYMOOS. 


184  THE  LIGHTHOUSE, 


THE   LIGHTHOUSE. 

THE  scene  was  more  beautiful  far  to  my  eye 

Than  if  day  in  its  pride  had  arrayed  it ; 
The  land-breeze  blew  mild,  and  the  azure -arched  sky 

Looked  pure  as  the  spirit  that  made  it : 
The  murmur  rose  soft  as  I  silently  gazed 

On  the  shadowy  waves'  playful  motion, 
From  the  dim,  distant  hill,  till  the  lighthouse  fire  blazed 

Like  a  star  in  the  midst  of  the  ocean. 

No  longer  the  joy  of  the  sailor-boy's  breast 

Was  heard  in  his  wildly  breathed  numbers ; 
The  sea-bird  had  flown  to  her  wave-girdled  nest, 

The  fisherman  sunk  to  his  slumbers : 
One  moment  I  looked  from  the  hill's  gentle  slope,— 

All  hushed  was  the  billow's  commotion,  — 
And  thought  that  the  lighthouse  looked  lovely  as  hope, 

That  star  of  life's  tremulous  ocean. 

The  time  is  long  past,  and  the  scene  is  afar. 

Yet  when  my  head  rests  on  its  pillow, 
Will  memory  sometimes  rekindle  the  star 

That  blazed  on  the  breast  of  the  billow : 
In  life's  closing  hour,  when  the  trembling  soul  flies, 

And  death  stills  the  heart's  last  emotion, 
Oh,  then  may  the  seraph  of  mercy  arise,     ' 

Like  a  star  on  eternity's  ocean. 

PAUL  MOON  JAMES. 
A  great  favorite  of  my  mother. 


SHE    WAS  A   PHANTOM  OF  DELIGHT.  185 


SHE  WAS  A   PHANTOM   OF  DELIGHT. 

SHE  was  a  phantom  of  delight 
When  first  she  gleamed  upon  my  sight ; 
A  lovely  apparition,  sent 
To  be  a  moment's  ornament : 
Her  eyes  as  stars  of  twilight  fair ; 
Like  twilight's,  too,  her  dusky  hair ; 
But  all  things  else  about  her  drawn 
From  May-time  and  the  cheerful  dawn : 
A  dancing  shape,  an  image  gay, 
To  haunt,  to  startle,  and  waylay. 

I  saw  her  upon  nearer  view, 

A  spirit,  yet  a  woman  too  ! 

Her  household  motions,  light  and  free, 

And  steps  of  virgin  liberty ; 

A  countenance  in  which  did  meet 

Sweet  records,  promises  as  sweet : 

A  creature  not  too  bright  or  good 

For  human  nature's  daily  food, 

For  transient  sorrows,  simple  wiles, 

Praise,  blame,  love,  kisses,  tears,  and  smiles. 

And  now  I  see  with  eye  serene 
The  very  pulse  of  the  machine ! 
A  being  breathing  thoughtful  breath, 
A  traveller  between  life  and  death : 
The  reason  firm,  the  temperate  will, 
Endurance,  foresight,  strength,  and  skill : 
A  perfect  woman,  nobly  planned 
To  warn,  to  comfort,  and  command ; 
And  yet  a  spirit  still,  and  bright 
With  something  of  an  angel-light. 

WORDSWORTH. 


186  SONG. 


LINES  WEITTEN   THE  NIGHT   BEFORE   HIS 
EXECUTION. 

E  'EN  such  is  time,  which  takes  on  trust 
Our  youth,  our  joys,  our  all  we  have, 
And  pays  us  but  with  earth  and  dust ; 
Which  in  the  dark  and  silent  grave, 
When  we  have  wandered  all  our  ways, 
Shuts  up  the  story  of  our  days ; 
But  from  this  earth,  this  grave,  this  dust, 
My  God  shall  raise  me  up,  I  trust. 

SIR  WALTER  RALEIGH. 


SONG. 

WHEN  you  mournfully  rivet  your  tear-laden  eyes, 
That  have  seen  the  last  sunset  of  hope  pass  away, 

On  some  bright  orb  that  seems,  through  the  still,  sapphire  skies, 
In  beauty  and  splendor  to  roll  on  its  way, 

Oh,  remember  this  earth,  if  beheld  from  afar, 

Appears  wrrapt  in  a  halo  as  soft  and  as  bright 
As  the  pure  silver  radiance  enshrining  yon  star, 

Where  your  spirit  is  eagerly  soaring  to-night. 

And  at  this  very  midnight,  perhaps,  some  poor  heart 
That  is  aching  or  breaking  in  that  distant  sphere 

Gazes  down  on  this  dark  world,  and  longs  to  depart 
From  its  own  dismal  home  to  a  happier  one  here. 

MRS.  KEMBLE. 


OH,   EVER    THUS.  187 


FAITH. 

BETTEK  trust  all,  and  be  deceived, 

And  weep  that  trust  and  that  deceiving, 

Than  doubt  one  heart  that,  if  believed, 
Had  blessed  one's  life  with  true  believing. 

Oh,  in  this  mocking  world,  too  fast  ' 
The  doubting  fiend  o'ertakes  our  youth ! 

Better  be  cheated  to  the  last 

Than  lose  the  blessed  hope  of  truth. 

MRS.  KEMBLE. 


OH,  EVEE  THUS. 

OH,  ever  thus,  from  childhood's  hour, 

I  Ve  seen  my  fondest  hopes  decay ! 
I  never  loved  a  tree  or  flower, 

But 't  was  the  first  to  fade  away. 
I  never  nursed  a  dear  gazelle, 

To  glad  me  with  its  soft  black  eye, 
But  when  it  came  to  know  me  well, 

And  love  me,  it  was  sure  to  die. 
Now,  too,  —  the  joy  most  like  divine 

Of  all  I  ever  dreamt  or  knew,  — 
To  see  thee,  hear  thee,  call  thee  mine,  — 

Oh,  misery  !  must  I  lose  that  too.  ? 
Yet  go  !  on  peril's  brink  we  meet ; 

Those  frightful  rocks,  that  treacherous  sea 
No,  never  come  again,  —  though  sweet, 

Though  heaven,  it  may  be  death  to  thee. 
Farewell !  and  blessings  on  thy  way, 


188  EPITAPH  ON  TIMOTHY  JOHN. 

Where'er  thou  go'st,  beloved  stranger ! 
Better  to  sit  and  watch  that  ray, 
And  think  thee  safe,  though  far  away, 

Than  have  thee  near  me  and  in  danger. 

MOORE,  The  Fire-JForshippers. 

HYMN   TO   THE   VIBGIN. 

AVE  Sanctissima, 
'T  is  nightfall  on  the  sea ; 

Ora  pro  nobis, 
Our  souls  rise  to  thee ; 
Watch  us  while  shadows  lie 
Far  o'er  the  water  spread ; 
Hear  the  heart's  lonely  sigh, 
Thine  too  hath  bled. 

Thou  that  hast  looked  on  death, 
Aid  us  when  death  is  near ; 
Whisper  of  heaven  to  faith, 
Sweet  Mother,  hear! 

Ora  pro  nobis, 
The  wave  must  rock  our  sleep ; 

Ora,  Mater,  ora, 
Star  of  the  deep. 

MRS.  HEMANS,  The  Forest  Sanctuary. 

EPITAPH   ON   TIMOTHY   JOHN. 

SACRED  to  the  memory  of  Timothy  John, 
Who  died  in  the  year  one  thousand  and  one. 
Stranger,  pray  for  the  soul  of  Timothy  John, 
Or  let  it  alone,  —  't  is  all  one  to  Timothy  John, 
Who  died  in  the  year  one  thousand  and  one. 

ANONYMOUS. 
M.'s  philosophy. 


THE  APPEAL    TO  HAFED.  189 


LINES  FOE  MUSIC. 

0  SUNNY  Love ! 
Crowned  with  fresh-flowering  May, 

Breath  like  the  Indian  clove, 
Eyes  like  the  dawn  of  day ; 

O  sunny  Love ! 

0  fatal  Love ! 

Thy  wreath  is  nightshade  all, 
With  gloomy  cypress  wove ; 
Thy  kiss  is  bitter  gall, 
O  fatal  Love ! 

MRS.  KEMBLE. 


THE  APPEAL  TO   HAPED. 

"  HAFED,  my  own  beloved  lord," 

She  kneeling  cries,  "  first,  last  adored ! 

If  in  that  soul  thou  'st  ever  felt 

Half  what  thy  lips  impassioned  swore, 
Here,  on  my  knees  that  never  knelt 

To  any  but  their  God  before, 
I  pray  thee,  as  thou  lov'st  me,  fly  — 
Now,  now,  —  ere  yet  their  blades  are  nigh. 
Oh,  haste !  the  bark  that  bore  me  hither 

Can  waft  us  o'er  yon  darkening  sea, 
East,  west,  —  alas  !  I  care  not  whither, 

So  thou  art  safe,  and  I  with  thee. 


190  CADYOW  CASTLE. 

Go  where  we  will,  this  hand  in  thine, 

Those  eyes  before  me  smiling  thus, 
Through  good  and  ill,  through  storm  and  shine, 

The  world  's  a  world  of  love  for  us. 
On  some  calm,  blessed  shore  we  '11  dwell, 
Where  't  is  no  crime  to  love  too  well ; 
Where  thus  to  worship  tenderly 
An  erring  child  of  light  like  thee 
Will  not  be  sin ;  or,  if  it  be, 
Where  we  may  weep  our  faults  away, 
Together  kneeling,  night  and  day, 
Thou,  for  my  sake,  at  Alla's  shrine, 
And  I,  at  any  god's,  for  thine." 

MOOEE,  The  Fire-Worshippers. 


CADYOW   CASTLE. 

WHEN  pri»cely  Hamilton's  abode 
Ennobled  Cadyow's  Gothic  towers, 

The  song  went  round,  the  goblet  flowed, 
And  revel  sped  the  laughing  hours. 

Then,  thrilling  to  the  harp's  gay  sound, 
So  sweetly  rung  each  vaulted  wall, 

And  echoed  light  the  dancer's  bound, 
As  mirth  and  music  cheered  the  hall. 


'T  is  noon,  —  against  the  knotted  oak 
The  hunters  rest  the  idle  spear ; 

Curls  through  the  trees  the  slender  smoke, 
Where  yeomen  dight  the  woodland  cheer. 


CADYOW  CASTLE.  191 

Proudly  the  Chieftain  marked  his  clan, 
On  greenwood  lap  all  careless  thrown, 

Yet  missed  his  eye  the  boldest  man, 
That  bore  the  name  of  Hamilton. 

"Why  fills  not  Bothwellhaugh  his  place, 
Still  wont  our  weal  and  woe  to  share  ? 

Why  comes  he  not  our  sport  to  grace  ? 
Why  shares  he  not  our  hunter's  fare  ? " 

Stern  Claud  replied,  with  darkening  face 
(Gray  Paisley's  haughty  lord  was  he) : 

"  At  merry  feast  or  buxom  chase 
No  more  the  warrior  wilt  thou  see. 

"  Few  suns  have  set  since  Woodhouselee 
Saw  Bothwellhaugh's  bright  goblets  foam, 

When  to  his  hearth,  in  social  glee, 

The  war-worn  soldier  turned  him  home. 

"  There,  wan  from  her  maternal  throes, 

His  Margaret,  beautiful  and  mild, 
Sate  in  her  bower,  a  pallid  rose, 

And  peaceful  nursed  her  new-born  child. 

"  Oh,  change  accursed !  past  are  those  days ; 

False  Murray's  ruthless  spoilers  came, 
And,  for  the  hearth's  domestic  blaze, 

Ascends  destruction's  volumed  flame." 


He  ceased ;  and  cries  of  rage  and  grief 
Burst  mingling  from  the  kindred  band, 

And  half  arose  the  kindling  Chief, 
And  half  unsheathed  his  Arran  brand. 


192  CADYOW  CASTLE. 

But  who,  o'er  bush,  o'er  stream  and  rock, 
Rides  headlong  with  resistless  speed, 

Whose  bloody  poniard's  frantic  stroke 
Drives  to  the  leap  his  jaded  steed  ? 

Sternly  he  spoke  :  "  'T  is  sweet  to  hear 
In  good  greenwood  the  bugle  blown, 

But  sweeter  to  Revenge's  ear 
To  drink  a  tyrant's  dying  groan. 

"  Your  slaughtered  quarry  proudly  trode, 
At  dawning  morn,  o'er  dale  and  down, 

But  prouder  base-born  Murray  rode 

Through  old  Lirilithgow's  crowdpd  town. 

"  With  hackbut  bent,  my  secret  stand, 
Dark  as  the  purposed  deed,  I  chose, 

And  marked  where,  mingling  in  his  band, 
Trooped  Scottish  pikes  and  English  bows. 

"  Dark  Morton,  girt  with  many  a  spear, 
Murder's  foul  minion,  led  the  van  ; 

And  clashed  their  broadswords  in  the  rear 
The  wild  Macfarlanes'  plaided  clan. 

"  'Mid  pennoned  spears,  a  steely  grove, 
Proud  Murray's  plumage  floated  high ; 

Scarce  could  his  trampling  charger  move, 
So  close  the  minions  crowded  nigh. 

"  But  yet  his  saddened  brow  confessed 
A  passing  shade  of  doubt  and  awe  ; 
Some  fiend  was  whispering  in  his  breast, 
'  Beware  of  injured  Bothwellhaugh ! ' 


WHEN   TWILIGHT  DEWS.  193 

"  The  death-shot  parts,  the  charger  springs, 

Wild  rises  tumult's  startling  roar ! 
And  Murray's  plumy  helmet  rings, — 

Rings  on  the  ground,  to  rise  no  more. 

"  What  joy  the  raptured  youth  can  feel 

To  hear  her  love  the  loved  one  tell ; 
Or  he  who  broaches  on  his  steel 

The  wolf  by  whom  his  infant  fell ! 

"  But  dearer  to  my  injured  eye 

To  see  in  dust  proud  Murray  roll ; 
And  mine  was  ten  times  trebled  joy, 

To  hear  him  groan  his  felon  soul." 

SCOTT. 


WHEN   TWILIGHT  DEWS. 

WHEN  twilight  dews  are  falling  soft 

Upon  the  rosy  sea,  love, 
I  watch  the  star,  whose  beam  so  oft 

Has  lighted  me  to  thee,  love. 
And  thou,  too,  on  that  orb  so  dear, 

Ah,  dost  thou  gaze  at  even ; 
And  think,  though  lost  forever  here, 

Thou  'It  yet  be  mine  in  heaven  ? 

There 's  not  a  garden-walk  I  tread, 
There 's  not  a  flower  I  see,  love, 

But  brings  to  mind  some  hope  that 's  fled, 
Some  joy  I  Ve  lost  with  thee,  love. 

13 


194  TO  SIGH,    YET  FEEL  NO  PAIN. 

And  still  I  wish  that  hour  was  near, 
When  friends  and  foes  forgiven, 

The  pains,  the  ills,  we  Ve  wept  through  here 
May  turn  to  smiles  in  heaven. ' 

MOORE. 
Sung  by  Mrs.  LONG. 


TO   SIGH,  YET   FEEL   NO  PAIN. 

To  sigh,  yet  feel  no  pain  ; 

To  weep,  yet  scarce  know  why ; 
To  sport  an  hour  with  beauty's  chain, 

Then  throw  it  idly  by ; 
To  kneel  at  many  a  shrine, 

Yet  lay  the  heart  on  none ; 
To  think  all  other  charms  divine, 

But  those  we  just  have  won,  — 
This  is  love,  faithless  love, 

Such  as  kindleth  hearts  that  rove. 

To  keep  one  sacred  flame, 

Through  life  unchilled,  unmoved ; 
To  love  in  wintry  age  the  same 

As  first  in  youth  we  loved ; 
To  feel  that  we  adore, 

Even  to  such  fond  excess, 
That,  though  the  heart  would  break  with  more, 

It  could  not  live  with  less,  — 
This  is  love,  faithful  love, 

Such  as  saints  might  feel  above. 

MOORE. 


BALLAD  STANZAS.  195 

IMPEOMPTU    . 

WKITTEN   AMONG   THE   RUINS   OF   THE   SONNENBERG. 

THOU  who  within  thyself  dost  not  behold 

Ruins  as  great  as  these,  though  not  as  old, 

Canst  scarce  through  life  have  travelled  many  a  year, 

Or  lack'st  the  spirit  of  a  pilgrim  here. 

Youth  hath  its  walls  of  strength,  its  towers  of  pride ; 

Love,  its  warm  hearth-stones;  hope,  its  prospects  wide: 

Life's  fortress  in  thee  held  these,  one  and  all ; 

And  they  have  fallen  to  ruin,  or  shall  fall. 

MRS.  KEMBLE. 

BALLAD  STANZAS. 

I  KNEW,  by  the  smoke  that  so  gracefully  curled 
Above  the  green  elms,  that  a  cottage  was  near, 

And  I  said,  "  If  there 's  peace  to  be  found  in  the  world, 
A  heart  that  is  humble  might  hope  for  it  here." 

It  was  noon,  and  on  flowers  that  languished  around 

In  silence  reposed  the  voluptuous  bee ; 
Every  leaf  was  at  rest,  and  I  heard  not  a  sound 

But  the  woodpecker  tapping  the  hollow  beech-tree. 

And  "  Here  in  this  lone  little  wood,"  I  exclaimed, 
"  With  a  maid  who  was  lovely  to  soul  and  to  eye, 

Who  would  blush  when  I  praised  her,  and  weep  if  I  blamed, 
How  blest  could  I  live,  and  how  calm  could  I  die ! 

"  By  the  shade  of  yon  sumach,  whose  red  berry  dips 
In  the  gush  of  the  fountain,  how  sweet  to  recline, 

And  to  know  that  I  sighed  upon  innocent  lips 

Which  had  never  been  sighed  on  by  any  but  mine." 

MOORE. 
One  of  my  very  oldest  boyhood  favorites. 


196  THE   ERL-KING. 


THE  EEL-KING. 

WHO  rides  there  so  late  through  the  night  dark  and  drear  ? 

The  father  it  is,  with  his  infant  so  dear : 

He  holdeth  the  boy  tightly  clasped  in  his  arm ; 

He  holdeth  him  safely,  he  keepeth  him  warm. 

"  My  son,  wherefore  seek'st  thou  thy  face  thus  to  hide  ?" 
"  Look,  father,  the  Erl-King  is  close  by  our  side ! 
Dost  see  not  the  Erl-King,  with  crown  and  with  train  ? " 
"  My  son,  't  is  the  mist  rising  over  the  plain." 

"  Oh,  come,  thou  dear  infant !  oh,  come  thou  with  me  ! 
Full  many  a  game  I  will  play  there  with  thee ; 
On  my  strand  lovely  flowers  their  blossoms  unfold, 
My  mother  shall  grace  thee  with  garments  of  gold." 

"My  father,  my  father,  and  dost  thou  not  hear 

The  words  that  the  Erl-King  now  breathes  in  mine  ear  ? " 

"  Be  calm,  dearest  child !  't  is  thy  fancy  deceives  ; 

'T  is  the  sad  wind  that  sighs  through  the  withering  leaves." 

"  Wilt  go,  then,  dear  infant,  wilt  go  with  me  there  ? 

My  daughters,  shall  tend  thee  with  sisterly  care : 

My  daughters  by  night  their  glad  festival  keep ; 

They  '11  dance  thee,  and  rock  thee,  and  sing  thee  to  sleep." 

"  My  father,  my  father,  and  dost  thou  not  see 

How  the  Erl-King  his  daughters  has  brought  here  for  me  ? " 

"  My  darling,  my  darling,  I  see  it  aright ; 

'T  is  the  aged  gray  willows  deceiving  thy  sight." 

"  I  love  thee,  I  'm  charmed  by  thy  beauty,  dear  boy ! 
And  if  thou  'rt  unwilling,  then  force  I  '11  employ." 
"  My  father,  my  father,  he  seizes  me  fast ; 
Full  sorely  the  Erl-King  has  hurt  me  at  last." 


YOU  REMEMBER   ELLEN.  197 

The  father  now  gallops,  with  terror  half  wild ; 
He  grasps  in  his.  arms  the  poor  shuddering  child : 
He  reaches  his  courtyard  with  toil  and  with  dread,  — 
The  child  in  his  arms  finds  he  motionless,  dead. 

GOETHE. 


YOU   REMEMBER   ELLEN. 

You  remember  Ellen,  our  hamlet's  pride, 

How  meekly  she  blessed  her  humble  lot, 
When  the  stranger,  William,  had  made  her  his  bride, 

And  love  was  the  light  of  their  lowly  cot. 
Together  they  toiled  through  winds  and  rains, 

Till  William  at  length  in  sadness  said, 
"  We  must  seek  our  fortune  on  other  plains ;  " 

Then,  sighing,  she  left  her  lowly  shed. 

They  roamed  a  long  and  a  weary  way, 

Nor  much  was  the  maiden's  heart  at  ease, 
When  now,  at  the  close  of  one  stormy  day, 

They  see  a  proud  castle  among  the  trees. 
"  To-night,"  said  the  youth,  "  we  '11  shelter  there ; 

The  wind  blows  cold,  and  the  hour  is  late." 
So  he  blew  the  horn  with  a  chieftain's  air, 

And  the  porter  bowed  as  they  passed  the  gate. 

"  Now,  welcome,  lady,"  exclaimed  the  youth, 

"  This  castle  is  thine,  and  these  dark  woods  all ! " 

She  believed  him  crazed,  but  his  words  were  truth, 
For  Ellen  is  Lady  of  Eosna  Hall. 

And  dearly  the  Lord  of  Rosna  loves 

What  William  the  stranger  wooed  and  wed  ; 

And  the  light  of  bliss,  in  these  lordly  groves, 

Shines  pure  as  it  did  in  the  lowly  shed. 

MOORE. 
Sung  by  Mrs.  LONG.    . 


198  THE  STEERSMAN'S  SONG. 


THE  YOUNG  MAY  MOOK 

THE  young  May  moon  is  beaming,  love"  ; 
The  glow-worm's  lamp  is  gleaming,  love. 

How  sweet  to  rove 

Through  Morna's  grove, 
When  the  drowsy  world  is  dreaming,  love. 
Then  awake,  —  the  heavens  look  bright,  my  dear ; 
'T  is  never  too  late  for  delight,  my  dear, 

And  the  best  of  all  ways 

To  lengthen  our  days 
Is  to  steal  a  few  hours  from  the  night,  my  dear. 

Now  all  the  world  is  sleeping,  love, 

But  the  Sage,  his  star-watch  keeping,  love  ; 

And  I,  whose  star, 

More  glorious  far, 

Is  the  eye  from  that  casement  peeping,  love. 
Then  awake,  —  till  rise  of  sun,  my  dear, 
The  Sage's  glass  we  '11  shun,  my  dear, 

Or.,  in  watching  the  flight 

Of  bodies  of  light, 
He  might  happen  to  take  thee  for  one,  my  dear. 

MOOKE. 


THE  STEERSMAN'S   SONG. 

WRITTEN  ABOARD  THE  BOSTON  FRIGATE. 

WHEN  freshly  blows  the  northern  gale, 
And  under  courses  snug  we  fly  ; 

When  lighter  breezes  swell  the  sail, 
And  royals  proudly  sweep  the  sky,  — 


THE    WOOD  FIRE.  199 

'Longside  the  wheel,  unwearied  still 

I  stand,  and  as  my  watchful  eye 
Doth  mark  the  needle's  faithful  thrill, 

I  think  of  her  I  love,  and  cry, 

"Port,  my  boy,  port ! " 

When  calms  delay,  or  breezes  blow 

Eight  from  the  point  we  wish  to  steer ; 
When  by  the  wind  close-hauled  we  go, 

And  strive  in  vain  the  port  to  near,  — " 
I  think  't  is  thus  the  Fates  defer 

My  bliss  with  one  that 's  far  away ; 
And  while  remembrance  springs  to  her, 

I  watch  the  sails,  and  sighing  say, 
"  Thus,  my  boy,  thus." 

But,  see  !  the  wind  draws  kindly  aft ; 

All  hands  are  up  the  yards  to  square, 
And  now  the  floating  stu'n-sails  waft 

Our  stately  ship  through  waves  and  air. 
Oh,  then  I  think  that  yet  for  me 

Some  breeze  of  fortune  thus  may  spring, 
Some  breeze  to  waft  me,  love,  to  thee, 

And  in  that  hope  I  smiling  sing, 
"  Steady,  boy,  so." 

MOORE. 


THE  WOOD   FIRE. 

THIS  bright  wood-fire, 
So  like  to  that  which  warmed  and  lit 
My  youthful  days,  —  how  doth  it  flit 
Back  on  the  periods  nigher, 
Relighting  and  rewarming  in  its  glow 
The  bright  scenes  of  my  youth,  all  gone  out  now. 


200  THE    WOOD   FIRE. 

How  eagerly  its  flickering  blaze  doth  catch 

On  every  point,  now  wrapped  in  time's  deep  shade ! 

Into  what  wild  grotesquen'ess  by  its  flash 

And  fitful  checkering  is  the  picture  made ! 

When  I  am  glad  or  gay, 

Let  me  walk  forth  into  the  brilliant  sun, 

And  with  congenial  rays  be  shone  upon  ; 

When  I  am  sad,  or  thought-bewitched  would  be, 

Let  me  glide  forth  in  moonlight's  mystery ; 

But  never,  while  I  live  this  varied  life, 

This  past  and  future,  with  all  wonders  rife, 

Never,  dear  flame,  may  be  denied  to  me 

Thy  dear  life-imaging,  close  sympathy. 

What  but  my  hopes  shot  upward  e'er  so  bright  ? 

What  but  my  fortunes  sank  so  low  in  night ! 

Why  art  thou  banished  now  from  hearth  and  hall, 
Thou  who  art  welcomed  and  beloved  by  all  ? 
"Was  thy  existence  then  too  fanciful 
For  our  world's  common  light,  who  are  so  dull  ? 
Did  thy  bright  gleams  mysterious  converse  hold 
With  our  congenial  souls,  —  secrets  too  bold  ! 
Well,  we  are  safe  and  strong,  for  now  we  sit 
Beside  a  hearth  where  no  dim  shadows  flit, 
Where  nothing  cheers  nor  saddens,  but  a  fire 
Warms  feet  and  hands,  nor  does  to  more  aspire  ; 
By  whose  compact  utilitarian  heap 
The  present  may  sit  down  and  go  to  sleep, 
Nor  fear  the  ghosts  who  from  the  dim  past  walked, 
And  with  us  by  the  unequal  light  of  the  old  wood-fire  talked. 

E.  S.  H. 

E.  S.  H.  filled  my  boyhood's  picture  of  intellectual   brightness  and  infinite 
beauty  and  sweetness. 


THE   WINGED   WORSHIPPERS.  201 


THE  WINGED   WOKSHIPPEES. 

ADDRESSED  TO  TWO  SWALLOWS  THAT  FLEW  INTO  CHAUNCY  PLACE 
CHURCH  DURING  DIVINE  SERVICE. 

GAY,  guiltless  pair, 
What  seek  ye  from  the  fields  of  heaven  ? 

Ye  have  no  need  of  prayer, 
Ye  have  no  sins  to  be  forgiven. 

Why  perch  ye  here, 
Where  mortals  to  their  Maker  bend  ? 

Can  your  pure  spirits  fear 
The  God  ye  never  could  offend  ? 

Ye  never  knew 
The  crimes  for  which  we  come  to  weep. 

Penance  is  not  for  you, 
Blessed  wanderers  of  the  upper  deep. 

To  you  'tis  given 
To  wake  sweet  nature's  untaught  lays  ; 

Beneath  the  arch  of  heaven 
To  chirp  away  a  life  of  praise. 

Then  spread  each  wing, 
Far,  far  above  o'er  lakes  and  lands, 

And  join  the  choirs  that  sing 
In  yon  blue  dome  not  reared  with  hands. 

Or,  if  ye  stay 
To  note  the  consecrated  hour, 

Teach  me  the  airy  way, 
And  let  me  try  your  envied  power. 


202  SOUND   THE  LOUD    TIMBREL. 

Above  the  crowd 
On  upward  wings  could  I  but  fly, 
I  'd  bathe  in  yon  bright  cloud, 
And  seek  the  stars  that  gem  the-  sky. 

'T  were  heaven  indeed 
Through  fields  of  trackless  light  to  soar, 

On  Nature's  charms  to  feed, 
And  nature's  own  great  God  adore. 

CHARLES  SPRAGUE. 

A  lifetime  favorite.     I  remember  well  the  poet,  with  the  desk  and  the  buzz  of 
the  bank  around  him,  in  odd  contrast  to  his  refined  and  classical  features. 


SOUND   THE   LOUD   TIMBEEL. 

MIEIAM'S  SONG. 

AIR:   "  Avison." 

"  And  Miriam  the  prophetess,  the  sister  of  Aaron,  took  a  timbrel  in  her  hand  ; 
and  all  the  women  went  out  after  her  with  timbrels  and  with  dances."  —  EXOD. 
xv.  20. 

SOUND  the  foud  timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea ; 
Jehovah  has  triumphed,  —  his  people  are  free. 
Sing,  —  for  the  pride  of  the  tyrant  is  broken. 

His  chariots,  his  horsemen,  all  splendid  and  brave, 
How  vain  was  their  boasting,  —  the  Lord  hath  but  spoken, 

And  chariots  and  horsemen  are  sunk  in  the  wave. 
Sound  the  loud  timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea ; 
Jehovah  has  triumphed,  —  his  people  are  free. 

Praise  to  the  Conqueror,  praise  to  the  Lord ! 

His  word  was  our  arrow,  his  breath  was  our  sword. 

Who  shall  return  to  tell  Egypt  the  story 

Of  those  she  sent  forth  in  the  hour  of  her  pride  ? 


THE  TURF  SHALL  BE  MY  FRAGRANT  SHRINE.       203 

For  he  hath  looked  out  from  his  pillar  of  glory, 

And  all  her  brave  thousands  are  dashed  in  the  tide. 
Sound  the  loud  timbrel  o'er  Egypt's  dark  sea ; 
Jehovah  has  triumphed,  —  his  people  are  free. 

MOORE. 


THE   TURF   SHALL   BE   MY  FEAGEANT   SHEINE. 

AIR:  "Stevenson." 

THE  turf  shall  be  my  fragrant  shrine  ; 
My  temple,  Lord,  that  arch  of  thine ; 
My  censer's  breath  the  mountain  airs, 
And  silent  thoughts  my  only  prayers. 

My  choir  shall  be  the  moonlight  waves, 
When  murmuring  homeward  to  their  caves, 
Or  when  the  stillness  of  the  sea, 
E'en  more  than  music,  breathes  of  thee. 

I  '11  seek,  by  day,  some  glade  unknown, 
All  light  and  silence,  like  thy  throne ; 
And  the  pale  stars  shall  be,  at  night, 
The  only  eyes  that  watch  my  rite. 

Thy  heaven,  on  which  't  is  bliss  to  look, 
Shall  be  my  pure  and  shining  book, 
Where  I  shall  read,  in  words  of  flame, 
The  glories  of  thy  wondrous  name. 

1 11  read  thy  anger  in  the  rack 

That  clouds  awhile  the  daybeam's  track ; 

Thy  mercy  in  the  azure  hue 

Of  sunny  brightness,  breaking  through. 


204         THIS    WORLD  IS  ALL  A   FLEETING   SHOW. 

There 's  nothing  bright,  above,  below, 
From  flowers  that  bloom  to  stars  that  glow, 
But  in  its  light  my  soul  can  see 
Some  feature  of  thy  deity. 

There 's  nothing  dark,  below,  above, 
But  in  its  gloom  I  trace  thy  love, 
And  meekly  wait  that  moment  when 
Thy  touch  shall  turn  all  bright  again. 

MOORE. 


THIS  WORLD   IS  ALL  A  FLEETING   SHOW. 

AIR  :  "Stevenson." 

THIS  world  is  all  a  fleeting  show, 

For  man's  illusion  given  ; 
The  smiles  of  joy,  the  tears  of  woe, 
Deceitful  shine,  deceitful  flow,  — 

There 's  nothing  true  but  heaven. 

And  false  the  light  on  Glory's  plume, 

As  fading  hues  of  even  ; 
And  Love,  and  Hope,  and  Beauty's  bloom 
Are  blossoms  gathered  for  the  tomb,  — 

There  's  nothing  bright  but  heaven. 

Poor  wanderers  of  a  stormy  day, 

From  wave  to  wave  we  're  driven  ; 
And  fancy's  flash  and  reason's  ray 
Serve  but  to  light  the  troubled  way,  — 


There  's  nothing  calm  but  heaven. 


MOORE. 


ABSENCE.  205 


ABSENCE. 

WHAT  shall  I  do  with  all  the  days  and  hours 
That  must  be  counted  ere  I  see  thy  face  ? 

How  shall  I  charm  the  interval  that  lowers 

Between  this  time  and  that  sweet  time  of  grace  ? 

Shall  I  in  slumber  steep  each  weary  sense, 
Weary  with  longing  ?     Shall  I  flee  away 

Into  past  days,  and  with  some  fond  pretence 
Cheat  myself  to  forget  the  present  day  ? 

Shall  love  for  thee  lay  on  my  soul  the  sin 
Of  casting  from  me  God's  great  gift  of  time  ? 

Shall  I,  these  mists  of  memory  locked  within, 
Leave  and  forget  life's  purposes  sublime  ? 

Oh,  how,  or  by  what  means,  may  I  contrive 

To  bring  the  hour  that  brings  thee  back  more  near  ? 

How  may  I  teach  my  drooping  hope  to  live 
Until  that  blessed  time,  and  thou  art  here  ? 

I  '11  tell  thee ;  for  thy  sake  I  will  lay  hold 
Of  all  good  aims,  and  consecrate  to  thee, 

In  worthy  deeds,  each  moment  that  is  told, 
While  thou,  beloved  one,  art  far  from  me. 

For  thee  I  will  arouse  my  thoughts  to  try 

All  heavenward  flights,  all  high  and  holy  strains ; 

For  thy  dear  sake  I  will  walk  patiently 

Through  these  long  hours,  nor  call  their  minutes  pain. 

I  will  this  dreary  blank  of  absence  make 
A  noble  task-time ;  and  will  therein  strive 


206  HUNTING-SONG  FOR  1839. 

To  follow  excellence,  and  to  o'ertake 

More  good  than  I  have  won  since  yet  alive. 

So  may  this  doomed  time  build  up  in  me 

A  thousand  graces,  which  shall  thus  be  thine; 

So  may  my  love  and  longing  hallowed  be, 
And  thy  dear  thought  an  influence  divine. 

MKS.  KEMBLE. 


HUNTING-SONG  FOE   1839. 

YE  hunters  of  New  England 

Who  bear  the  rusty  guns 
Your  fathers  shot  the  redcoats  with, 

And  left  them  to  their  sons  ! 
With  all  your  firelocks  blaze  away 

Before  the  bucks  are  gone, 
As  you  aim  at  the  game 

In  the  woods  of  old  Naushon, 
Wh'ere  the  shot  are  flying  right  and  left 

In  the  woods  of  old  Naushon. 

Our  sportsmen  are  proverbial 

Among  the  ducks  and  loons, 
And  greatly  feared  of  quadrupeds, 

From  mammoths  down  to  coons. 
With  double  barrels  loaded  high, 

Their  triggers  both  are  drawn, 
As  they  clang  and  they  bang 

In  the  woods  of  old  Naushon, 
Where  the  bucks  are  leaping  through  the  leaves 

In  the  woods  of  old  Naushon. 


THE  BUGLE-HORN.  207 

New  England's  trusty  sportsmen 

Shall  leave  their  wives  so  dear, 
To  hunt  with  our  brave  Governor 

For  many  a  happy  year. 
Then,  then,  ye  gallant  gentlemen, 

When  ancient  corks  are  drawn, 
Fill  the  toasts  to  the  host 

In  the  hall  of  old  Naushon, 
While  the  wine  is  flowing  bright  and  free 

In  the  hall  of  old  Naushon. 

HOLMES. 


THE  BUGLE-HOKN. 

OH,  who  does  not  love  the  bugle-horn  ? 

How  sweet  are  its  tones  on  the  breezes  borne  ! 

They  seem  like  the  voice  of  a  spirit  to  be, 

Breathing  its  heavenly  melody. 

What  a  lovely  morn  is  this  to  blend 

It?  music  with  that  which  the  forests  lend  ! 

The  sunlight  breaks  through  the  leaves  of  green, 

And  softly  rests  on  the  limbs  between, 

And  the  gale  of  autumn  has  checked  its  career, 

While  the  hills  re-echo  the  cadence  clear. 

How  thrillingly  sweet  the  notes  float  along, 

And  the  sheen  of  the  ocean  still  bears  them  on, 

As  calmly  wrapped  in  an  emerald  bed, 

It  sleeps  in  peace,  for  the  storm  spirit  has  fled. 

So  pure  and  clear  in  repose  it  seems 

Like  the  face  of  a  sleeper  who  sinless  dreams ;. 

And  the  crash  in  the  distance  that 's  brought  to  my  ear 

Is  caused  by  the  leap  of  the  forest  deer. 


208  COME    TO    THE   SPORTS,   ETC. 

At  the  sound  of  rny  bugle  he  's  up  and  away  : 
No  music  to  him  is  the  huntsman's  lay. 
Oh,  Death,  when  he  comes,  let  it  be  such  a  morn  ! 
From  its  tenement  here  when  my  spirit -is  borne, 
May  it  pass  like  the  notes  of  my  bugle-horn ! 
1835.  W.  H.  H. 

W.  H.  H.  introduced  the  bugle  into  NAUSHON  woods.  His  instrument  still 
belongs  to  one  of  iny  grandchildren.  We  have  lately  tried  to  reproduce  the  effect 
of  it  at  the  hunt  of  1883. 


COME   TO   THE   SPOETS   OF   OUE  WAVE-CIRCLED 

ISLE. 

COME  to  the  sports  of  our  wave-circled  isle, 

Come  when  the  forest  is  changing  ; 
By  the  starry  light  of  an  autumn  night, 

The  deer  through  the  woods  are  ranging. 

The  hoar-frost  fringes  the  moss-covered  tree, 
The  wind  through  the  boughs  is  sighing ; 

Though  its  leaves  are  sear  with  the  waning  year, 
A  buck  in  their  shade  is  lying. 

The  hues  of  summer  are  gone  from  the  hill, 
But  the  sunshine  around  it  is  streaming ; 

With  a  living  light  the  forest  is  bright, 
Where  the  doe  in  her  lair  is  dreaming. 

These  are  the  glories  of  Nature's  decay,  — 

She  fades  with  no  tinge  of  sadness ; 
O'er  her  scarlet  bowers,  o'er  the  dying  flowers, 

The  fawns  are  leaping  in  gladness. 


OH,  LET  NO   CHANGE  IN  AFTER    YEARS.          209 

And  thus  should  life,  like  the  fleeting  year, 
Grow  bright  as  it  nears  the  gloaming, 

Till  it  shines  a  star  in  the  fields  of  air, 

Where  the  loved  and  lost  ones  are  roaming. 

Then  come  to  the  sports  of  our  wave-circled  isle, 

Come  when  the  forest  is  changing ; 
By  the  starry  light  of  an  autumn  night, 

The  deer  through  its  woods  are  ranging. 

w.  w.  s. 

Sung  at  the  hunt,  October,  1839. 


OH,  LET  NO  CHANGE  IN  AFTER  YEARS. 

OH,  let  no  change  in  after  years 

Efface  the  magic  spell 
That  fancy  weaves  around  these  scenes, 

Where  memory  loves  to  dwell ! 
Amidst  the  toiling  throngs  of  life, 

The  world's  most  tainted  air, 
Oh,  keep  unstained  from  vulgar  strife 
The  feelings  cherished  here ! 

We  11  then,  as  now,  round  friendship's  shrine 

The  heart's  libation  pour, 
And  sadly  still  fresh  garlands  twine, 
At  twilight's  musing  hour. 

When  loudly  moans  the  autumn  gale, 

In  storm  the  daylight  fades, 
And  lifelike  tones  of  seeming  wail 

Sound  through  the  forest  glades, 
Oh,  they,  the  loved  of  other  days, 

How  fondly  then  they  seem 

14 


210     «/  NUMBER  NONE  BUT  THE  CLOUDLESS  HOURS." 

To  hover  round  our  thoughtful  gaze, 
Like  a  remembered  dream  ! 
We  '11  then,  as  now,  &c. 

And  when  the  tranquil  summer  air 

Breathes  on  its  earliest  flowers, 
The  thought,  amid  these  scenes  so  fair, 

Steals  o'er  our  happiest  hours,  — 
Of  those  whom  oft  with  joy  we  met, 

They  still  are  lingering  near  ; 
We  meet  them  yet,  we  meet  them  yet, 
In  storm  and  sunshine  here. 

We  '11  now,  as  then,  round  friendship's  shrine 

The  heart's  libation  pour, 
And  sadly  still  fresh  garlands  twine, 

At  twilight's  musing  hour. 

W.  W.  S. 

October,  1841.     This  always  seemed  to  me  the  best  original  thing  in  the  Island 
Book. 


I  NUMBER  NONE   BUT  THE  CLOUDLESS  HOURS." 

Am  :  "  Fair  Harvard." 

THERE  stands,  in  the  garden  of  old  St.  Mark, 

A  sun-dial,  quaint  and  gray, 
And  takes  no  heed  as  the  hours  in  the  dark 

Pass  over  it  day  by  day ; 
It  has  stood  for  ages  among  the  flowers, 

In  the  land  of  sky  and  song,  — 
"  I  number  none  but  the  cloudless  hours," 

Its  motto,  the  livelong  day. 

So  let  my  heart  in  this  garden  of  life 
Its  calendar  cheerfully  keep, 


WELCOME    TO  A    SUPPER.  211 

Taking  no  note  of  the  sorrow  and  strife 

Which  in  shadow  across  it  creep ; 
Content  to  dwell  in  this  land  of  ours, 
In  the  hope  that  is  twin  with  love, 
And  numbering  none  but  the  cloudless  hours, 
Till  the  day-spring  dawn  from  above, 

ANONYMOUS. 
NAUSHON,  Sept.  1,  1866. 


WELCOME   TO   A   SUPPER 

GIVEN   TO   DR.  0.  W.  HOLMES,   FEB.    16,  1865,   AT   MILTON. 

As  'mid  the  storm-cloud's  parting  veil 

A  ray  of  sunshine  streams, 
So  through  rude  winter,  snow,  and  hail, 

His  bright-eyed  visage  gleams 
AVho  gilds  the  lore  of  ancient  days 

With  gems  of  wit  and  mirth, 
And  weaves  the  poet's  sweetest  lays 

That  genius  gives  to  earth. 
Fill  up  till  o'er  the  crystal  rim 

The  sparkling  wine-drops  flow  ; 
While  lips  that  drain  the  beaker's  brim 

With  warmest  welcome  glow. 

Twine  round  his  brows  a  triple  wreath 

Of  rarest  wildwood  flowers, 
Plucked  when  Aurora's  perfumed  breath 

Plays  with  the  laughing  hours ; 
And  while  fresh  laurels  thus  we  cull 

For  learning,  wit,  and  art, 
Fill  up  your  glasses,  fill  them  full 

To  his  large,  genial  heart. 


212  HUNTING-SONG. 

Fill  up  till  o'er  the  crystal  rim 

The  sparkling  wine-drops  flow, 
While  lips  that  drain  the  beaker's  brim 


With  warmest  welcome  glow. 


W.  W.  SWAIN. 


HUNTING-SONG. 

NOT  a  buck  was  shot,  nor  a  doe,  nor  a  fawn, 

As  from  drive  to  drive  we  hurried, 
Though  the  huntsmen  were  dragged  from  their  beds 
at  dawn, 

And  the  deer  were  terribly  worried. 

We  crawled  back  slowly  at  fall  of  night, 

At  a  funeral  trot  returning, 
As  we  steered  our  course  by  the  dim  red  light 

Of  the  captain's  cheroot  a-burning. 

Short,  not  sweet,  were  the  words  we  said, 

As  we  smoked  in  silent  sorrow ; 
But  we  swore  that  the  deer  must  all  be  dead, 

—  And  we  'd  try  it  again  to-morrow. 

No  rush  for  saddle  or  haunch  was  heard,  — 

We  did  not  care  a  button ; 
For  we  said  with  a  grin  how  much  we  preferred 

A  leg  of  the  island  mutton. 

Then  we  jogged  in  silence  along  the  road ; 

But  we  kept  up  a  mighty  thinking 
Of  the  wagon  showing  its  empty  load, 

And  the  folks  all  staring  and  winking. 


AN   OPAL   GEM.  213 

We  thought,  as  we  sadly  removed  the  caps 

From  the  useless  shot  and  powder, 
How  we  'd  better  have  stayed  at  home  perhaps, 

And  fired  with  our  spoons  at  chowder ! 

Slowly  and  solemnly  one  by  one 
We  entered  and  told  our  story, 
The  hearing  whereof  brought  lots  of  fun 

And  a  plentiful  lack  of  glory. 

HOLMES. 
September  23,  1857. 


AN   OPAL   GEM. 

AN  opal  gem,  the  island  lies, 

Set  in  the  blue  surrounding  sea  ; 
And  there  beneath  the  sunny  skies 

Wander  young  footsteps,  light  and  free. 

There  gayly  gleam  the  ruddy  leaves, 
Soft  shimmering  in  the  autumn  sun, 

Her  rainbow  robe  the  rich  year  weaves,  — 
Rare  robe,  to  deck  the  harvest  spun. 

It  is  the  month  the  hunters  love  ; 

Sound  the  wild  horn,  bring  forth  the  steed ! 
O'er  hill  and  dell  we  'd  gladly  rove  ; 

But  who  the  gallant  chase  shall  lead  ? 

Sad  silence  hangs  upon  the  hall ; 

No  hunter's  troop  to-day  you  '11  find. 
He  who  was  first  to  sound  the  call 

In  his  still  grave  hears  not  the  wind, 


214  AN  OPAL   GEM. 

> 

Nor  song  of  bird,  nor  voice  of  friend ; 

Nor  feels  the  warmth  of  morning  sun, 
Or  of  true  hearts  that  sadly  blend 

For  love  of  him  whose  race  is  run.    . 

The  deer  may  toss  her  antlers  high, 
To  seek  the  covert  of  the  brake : 

No  need  the  hunter's  foot  to  fly  ; 

This  year  we  hunt  not,  for  his  sake,  — 

For  sake  of  him  who  once  did  own 
With  heart  so  free  this  sea-girt  isle, 

Whose  memory  in  thy  woods,  Naushon, 
Is  writ  in  Nature's  sunny  smile  ; 

But  not  in  Nature's  smile  alone  ! 

More  deeply  writ  in  those  two  graves,  — 
The  love  that  gathered  to  its  own 

Now  shares  the  life  from  death  that  saves. 

And  he  who  in  the  distant  years 

Shall  call  his  own  these  woodlands  fair, 

Who  seeks  of  earthly  hopes  and  fears 
To  know  the  end,  shall  find  it  there. 

Yet  not  in  sadness  close  the  strain 

That  tells  of  this  last  "  Harvest  home  ;  " 

A.  moment  pause,  to  wind  again 
The  jocund  notes  which  sounded  "  Come ! " 

And  when  the  friends  who  at  that  call 
With  joy  appear  in  ready  bands, 

In  turn  lie  low,  still  may  this  hall 

Know  the  warm  grasp  of  cordial  hands  : 


NO  MORE  THE  SUMMER  FLOWERET  CHARMS.   215 

Still  may  the  early  breeze  and  sun 

Keep  fresh  the  cheerful  thought  of  him 

Who  from  the  morn  till  day  was  done 
In  gladness  joined  their  joyful  hymn. 

A.  S.  H. 
COTUIT,  Oct.  12  or  17,  1858. 


NO  MORE   THE   SUMMER  FLOWERET   CHARMS. 

No  more  the  summer  floweret  charms, 

The  leaves  will  soon  be  sear, 
And  Autumn  folds  his  jewelled  arms 

Around  the  dying  year ; 
So,  ere  the  whitening  seasons  claim 

Our  leafless  groves  awhile, 
With  golden  wine  and  glowing  flame 

We  11  crown  our  lonely  isle. 

Once  more  the  merry  voices  sound 

Within  the  antlered  hall, 
And  long  and  loud  the  baying  hound 

Returns  the  hunter's  call. 
And  through  the  woods,  and  o'er  the  hill, 

And  far  along  the  bay, 
The  driver's  horn  is  sounding  still, 

Up,  sportsmen,  and  away  ! 

No  bars  of  steel,  nor  walls  of  stone, 

Our  little  empire  bound, 
But,  circling  with  his  azure  zone, 

The  sea  runs  foaming  round. 
The  whitening  wave,  the  purpled  skies, 

The  blue  and  lifted  shore, 
Braid  with  their  dim  .and  blending  dyes 

Our  wide  horizon  o'er. 


216  CHARADE. 

And  who  will  leave  the  grave  debate 

That  shakes  the  smoky  town, 
To  rule  amidst  our  island  state, 

And  wear  our  oak-leaf  crown  ? 
And  who  will  be  awhile  content 

To  hunt  our  woodland  game, 
And  leave  the  vulgar  pack  that  scent 

The  reeking  tracks  of  fame  ? 

And  who,  that  shares  in  toils  like  these, 

Will  sigh  not  to  prolong 
Our  days  beneath  the  broad-leaved  trees, 

Our  nights  of  mirth  and  song  ? 
Then  leave  the  dust  of  noisy  streets, 

Ye  outlaws  of  the  wood, 
And  follow  through  his  green  retreats 

Your  noble  Eobiu  Hood. 
October,  1849.  O.  W.  H. 


CHARADE. 

A  BARK  from  Targus'  golden  strand 
My  First  floats  on  the  stream ; 

Go  seek  it  where  the  Emerald  land 
Smiles  with  her  brightest  gleam. 

My  Second  through  my  first  pursues 
By  turns  its  winding  way ; 

And  when  descend  the  twilight  dews, 
And  Bacchus  bears  the  sway, 

My  Whole  the  imprisoned  spirit  frees, 
Whilst  loud  the  jest  and  song 

Are  borne  upon  the  evening  breeze 
In  joyous  notes  along. 


W.  W.  S. 


THE   STORM  PETREL.  217 


SOFT   GLEAMS   THE   OCTOBER   SUN. 

SOFT  gleams  the  October  sun  : 

We  look  for  the  feet  of  the  hunter ; 

But  the  hunter's  race  is  run, 

No  more  he  mounts  with  the  morning. 

Old  boon  companions  and  friends, 
This  year  we  meet  not  each  other  ; 
No  voice  the  greeting  sends, 
In  stillness  shines  the  morning. 

No  more  shall  his  cheerful  halloo 
Arouse  the  deer  in  the  dell ; 
The  earth  hath  taken  its  due, 

Till  shines  the  eternal  morning. 

A.  S.  H. 

Supposed  to  refer  to  Governor  SWAIN. 


THE   STOEM   PETREL. 

BIRD  of  untiring  wing, 

Whose  home  is  the  wave's  crest, 
When  clouds  and  darkness  fling 
Their  curtains  o'er  the  deep, 
It  cradles  thy  light  sleep 

Upon  its  heaving  breast. 

With  morning's  early  light, 
Far  o'er  the  long  low  wave 

Begins  thy  wandering  flight ; 

All  day  thy  pinions  sweep 

Above  the  unfathomed  deep, 
Thy  heritage  and  grave. 


218  ON  A.  B. 


Dark  harbinger  of  storm  ! 

Amidst  the  roaring  surge 
Is  seen  thy  shadowy  form, 
As  phantom-like  it  glides 
Far  down  their  caverned  sides, 

Or  scales  the  crested  verge. 

Along  their  foaming  track, 

When  ships,  by  tempest  tossed, 

Eeel  madly  through  the  rack, 

And  stout  hearts  quail  with  fear, 

Then  thou  art  hovering  near, 
'•'  Lone  wandering,  but  not  lost." 

W.  W.  S. 


ON   A.   B. 

THE  music  clamors  shrill  and  loud, 

And  vibrates  on  the  perfumed  air ; 
The  myriad  murmurs  of  the  crowd 

Die  into  breathless  silence  there. 
We  hear  the  tread  of  marching  feet, 

We  hear  the  rattling  roll  of  drums  ; 
All  vagrant  eyes  together  meet, 

The  maskers  gay  procession  comes. 

And,  first  andx  fairest  of  them  all, 

The  glad  night's  sovereign  leads  the  line. 
Each  heart  beats  proud  to  own  the  thrall 

Of  youth  and  beauty's  right  divine ; 
And  swift  the  yielding  mass  divides 

To  leave  her  princely  progress  free, 
As  through  the  spacious  path  she  glides, 

Like  Israel  through  the  parted  sea. 


IT  IS  A   BEAUTIFUL  BELIEF.  219 

What  crown  is  wortli  her  own  dark  hair, 

What  arms  so  fatal  as  her  eyes  ? 
What  banner  ever  shone  so  fair 

As  in  her  cheek  faint  flushing  flies  ? 
Decked  with  these  emblems  of  her  power, 

Her  beauty  lights  the  gilded  room ; 
One  heart,  one  worship,  gilds  the  hour, 

As  one  sun  warms  a  summer's  bloorn. 

And  after  her  there  comes  a  swarm 

Of  smaller  stars  less  grandly  bright, 
As  in  the  tropic  midnight  warm 

I  Ve  seen  faint  glimmers  fire  the  night, 
That  in  some  proud  ship's  wake  were  rife, 

Whose  full-sailed  beauty  cleft  the  waves, 
That  in  her  passage  found  their  life, 

And  in  her  shadow  found  their  graves, 

The  pageant  passes,  and  she  goes ; 

Her  beauty  gladdens  other  eyes, 
And  in  iny  passing  dream  the  rose 

Fades  to  the  gray  of  winter  skies. 
I  sigh  as  round  my  heart  is  rolled 

Indifference  that  beguiles  despair, 
Would  I  were  only  half  as  old, 

Or  she  were  only  half  as  fair  ! 

COLONEL  HAY. 


IT   IS   A   BEAUTIFUL   BELIEF. 

IT  is  a  beautiful  belief 
That  ever  round  our  head 

Are  hovering,  with  noiseless  wing, 
The  spirits  of  the  dead. 


220  DRYBURGH  ABBEY. 

It  is  a  beautiful  belief, 

When  finished  our  career, 
That  it  will  be  our  destiny 

To  watch  o'er  others  here ; 

To  lend  a  moral  to  the  flower, 
Breathe  wisdom  on  the  wind ; 

To  hold  commune,  at  night's  pure  noon, 
With  the  imprisoned  mind; 

To  bid  the  erring  cease  to  err, 

The  trembling  be  forgiven ; 
To  bear  away  from  ills  of  clay 

The  infant  to  its  heaven. 

Ah,  when  delight  was  found  in  life, 

And  joy  in  every  breath, 
I  cannot  tell  how  terrible 

The  mystery  of  death. 

But  now  the  past  is  bright  to  me, 

And  all  the  future  clear  ; 
For  't  is  my  faith  that  after  death 

We  still  shall  linger  here. 

JAMES  H.  PERKINS. 


DKYBUEGH   ABBEY. 

'T  WAS  morn,  but  not  the  ray  which  falls  the  summer  boughc 

among, 
When  beauty  walks  in  gladness  forth,  with  all  her  light  and 

song; 

'T  was  morn,  but  mist  and  cloud  hung  deep  upon  the  lonely  vale, 
And  shadows,  like  the  wings  of  death,  were  out  upon  the  gale. 


DRYBURGH  ABBEY.  221 

For  he  whose  spirit  woke  the  dust  of  nations  into  life, 

That  o'er  the  waste  and  barren  earth  spread  flowers  and  fruitage 

rife; 

Whose  genius  like  the  sun  illumed  the.  mighty  realms  of  mind,  — 
Had  fled  forever  from  the  fame,  love,  friendship  of  mankind. 

To  wear  a  wreath  in  glory  wrought  his  spirit  swept  afar, 
Beyond  the  soaring  wing  of  thought,  the  light. of  moon  or  star, 
To  drink  immortal  waters,  free  from  every  taint  of  earth, 
To  breathe  before  the  shrine  of  life,  the  source  whence  worlds 
had  birth. 

There  was  wailing  on  the  early  breeze,  and  darkness  in  the  sky, 
When  with  sable  plume,  and  cloak,  and  pall,  a  funeral  train 

swept  by ; 
Methought  —  St.    Mary   shield   us    well !  —  that    other    forms 

moved  there 
Than  those  of  mortal  brotherhood,  the  noble,  young,  and  fair. 

Was  it  a  dream  ?     How  oft  in  sleep  we  ask,  Can  this  be  true  ? 
Whilst  warm  imagination  paints  her  marvels  to  our  view ; 
Earth's  glory  seems  a  tarnished  down  to  that  which  we  behold 
When  dreams  enchant  our  sight  with  things  whose  meanest 
garb  is  gold. 

Was  it  a  dream  ?     Methought,  the  "  dauntless  Harold  "  passed 

me  by; 
The  proud  "  Fitz  James,"  with  martial  step,  and  dark  intrepid 

eye; 
That  "  Marmion's  "  haughty  crest  was  there,  a  mourner  for  his 

sake ; 
And  she,  the  bold,  the  beautiful,  —  sweet  "  Lady  of  the  Lake." 

The  minstrel  whose  last  lay  was  o'er,  whose  broken  harp  lay  low, 
And  with  him  glorious  "  Waverley  "  with  glance  and  step  of  woe ; 


222  DRYBURGH  ABBEY. 

And  "  Stuart's  "  voice  rose  there  as  when,  'midst  fate's  disastrous 

war, 
He  led  the  wild,  ambitious,  proud,  and  brave  "  Ich  Ian  Vohr." 

Next,  marvelling  at  his  sable  suit,  the  "  Dominie  "  stalked  past, 

With  "  Bertram,"  "  Julia,"  by  his  side,  whose  tears  were  flowing 
fast; 

"  Guy  Mannering,"  too,  moved  there,  o'erpowered  by  that  afflict- 
ing sight, 

And  "  Merrilies,"  as  when  she  wept  on  Ellangowan's  height. 

Solemn  and  grave,  "  Monkbarns  "  approached,  amidst  that  burial 

line, 
And  "  Ochiltree "  bent  o'er  his  staff  and   mourned  for  "  Auld 

lang  syne." 
Slow  moved  the  gallant  "  Mclntyre,"  whilst  "  Lovel "  mused 

alone ; 
For  once  "  Miss  Wardour's "  image  left  that  bosom's  faithful 

throne. 

With  coronach  and  arms  reversed  forth  came  "  MacGregor's " 

clan, 
Eed  "%Dougal's  "  cry  pealed  shrill  and  wild,  "  Eob  Roy's  "  bold 

brow  looked  wan. 

The  pale  "  Diana  "  kissed  her  cross,  and  blessed  its  sainted  ray  ; 
And  "  Wae  is  me,"  the  "Bailie"  sighed,  "that  I  should  see  this 

day!" 

Next  rode  in  melancholy  guise,  with  sombre  vest  and  scarf, 
Sir  Edward,  Laird  of  Ellieslaw,  the  far  renowned  "  Black  Dwarf." 
Upon  his  left,  in  bonnet  blue,  and  white  locks  flowing  free, 
The  pious  sculptor  of  the  grave,  stood  "  Old  Mortality." 

"  Balfour  of  Burley,"  "  Claverhouse,"  the  "  Lord  of  Evandale," 
And  stately  "  Lady  Margaret,"  whose  woe  might  nought  avail ; 


A    CHARADE.  223 

Fierce  "Both well"  on  his  charger  black,  as  from  the  conflict 

won, 
And  pale  "  Hebakuk  Mucklewrath,"  who  cried,  "  God's  will  be 

done ! " 

Still  onward  like  the  gathering  night  advanced  that  funeral  train, 
Like  billows  when  the  tempest  sweeps  across  the  shadowy  main ; 
Where'er  the  eager  gaze  might  reach  in  noble  ranks  were  seen 
Dark  plume  and  glittering  mail  and  crest,  and  woman's  beau- 
teous mien. 

A  sound  thrilled  through  the  lengthening  host ;  methought  the 

vault  was  closed 

Where  in  his  glory  and  renown  fair  Scotia's  bard  reposed. 
A  sound  thrilled  through  that  lengthening  host ;  and  forth  my 

vision  fled ; 
But,  ah,  that  mournful  dream  proved  true,  —  the  immortal  Scott 

was  dead. 

CHARLES  SWAIN. 


A   CHARADE. 

It  is  said  to  have  been  sent  some  years  ago  in  a  blank  cover  to  Queen  Adelaide. 
She  attributed  the  lines  to  Sir  Walter  Scott,  and  enclosed  them  to  him  ;  but  his 
answer  was  that  he  had  never  written  anything  half  so  good.  The  author  is  still 
unknown. 

SIR  HILARY  charged  at  Agincourt,  — 

Sooth,  't  was  a  dreadful  day ; 
And  though  in  those  old  days  of  sport 
The  rufflers  of  the  camp  and  court 

Found  little  time  to  pray, 
'T  is  said  Sir  Hilary  uttered  there 
Two  syllables  in  form  of  prayer : 


224  SEASONS  HAVE  PASSED  AWAY. 

My  First  for  all  the  brave  and  proud 

Who  see  to-morrow's  sun ; 
My  Next,  with  its  cold,  quiet  cloud, 
To  those  who  find  a  dewy  shroud' 

Before  the  day  be  done : 
My  Whole  for  those  whose  bright  blue  eyes 
Weep  when  a  warrior  nobly  dies. 


SEASONS   HAVE   PASSED   AWAY. 

SEASONS  have  passed  away 

Since  last  we  met : 
Springs  have  to  summers  blushed, 
Summers  on  autumn  rushed, 
Autumns  fallen,  winter  crushed  ; 

Love  bloometh  yet. 

Kingdoms  have  passed  away 

Since  last  we  met : 
See  from  the  thrones  of  pride 
Monarchs  like  spectres  glide ; 
Love's  laws  do  still  abide, 

Love  reigneth  yet. 

Dear  ones  have  passed  away, 

Since  last  we  met : 
Brother  and  friend  have  gone, 
Heart  of  twin  heart  is  shorn ; 
Love  laugheth  death  to  scorn, 
Love  liveth  yet. 

MRS.  HOWE. 
Sung  by  H.  C.  B. 


SUN  AND  SHADOW.  225 


CHARADE. 

MY  First,  beloved  of  many  an  ancient  dame, 
Within  my  Next  from  Eastern  countries  came. 
0  fragrant  Whole,  of  which  each  forms  a  part, 
Thou  art  not  science,  but  thou  teachest  art. 

(Tea-chest.} 
BISHOP  WILLIAMS. 
First  heard  at  our  friend's,  CHARLES  B.  SEDGEWICK,  SYRACUSE. 


SUN  AND   SHADOW. 

As  I  look  from  the  isle,  o'er  its  billows  of  green, 

To  the  billows  of  foam-crested  blue, 
Yon  bark,  that  afar  in  the  distance  is  seen, 

Half  dreaming,  my  eyes  will  pursue : 
Now  dark  in  the  shadow,  she  scatters  the  spray 

As  the  chaff  in  the  stroke  of  the  flail ; 
Now  white  as  the  sea-gull,  she  flies  on  her  way, 

The  sun  gleaming  bright  on  her  sail. 

Yet  her  pilot  is  thinking  of  dangers  to  shun,  — 

Of  breakers  that  whiten  and  roar ; 
How  little  he  cares  if  in  shadow  or  sun 

They  see  him  who  gaze  from  the  shore ! 
He  looks  to  the  beacon  that  looms  from  the  reef, 

To  the  rock  that  is  under  his  lee, 
As  he  drifts  on  the  blast,  like  a  wind- wafted  leaf, 

O'er  the  gulfs  of  the  desolate  sea. 

Thus  drifting  afar  to  the  dim,  vaulted  caves 
Where  life  and  its  ventures  are  laid, 
15 


226  A   NATIONAL   SONG   OF   TRIUMPH. 

The  dreamers  who  gaze  while  we  battle  the  waves 

May  see  us  in  sunshine  or  shade ; 
Yet  true  to. our  course,  though  our  shadow  grow  dark, 

We  '11  trim  our  broad  sail  as  before, 
And  stand  by  the  rudder  that  governs  the  bark, 

Nor  ask  how  we  look  from  the  shore. 

HOLMES. 

Written  in  the  northeast  lower  room  of  the  NAUSHON  MANSION  HOUSE. 


A   NATIONAL   SONG   OF   TEIUMPH. 

Written  for,  and  sung  at,  a  large  social  meeting  of  friends,  who  met  by  appoint- 
ment at  Young's  Tavern,  Edinburgh,  to  celebrate  the  entry  of  the  Allies  into  Paris 
in  1814. 

Now,  Britain,  let  thy  cliffs  o'  snaw 

Look  prouder  o'er  the  marled  main ; 
The  bastard  Eagle  bears  awa', 

An'  ne'er  shall  ee  thy  shores  again. 
Come,  bang  thy  banners  to  the  wain, 

The  struggle 's  past,  the  prize  is  won  ; 
Well  may  thy  Lion  shake  his  mane, 

And  turn  his  gray  beard  to  the  sun. 

Lang  hae  I  bragged  o'  thine  an'  thee, 

E'en  when  thy  back  was  at  the  wa' ; 
Now  thou  my  proudest  sang  shalt  be, 

As  lang  as  I  hae  breath  to  draw. 
Where  now  the  coofs  who  boded  woe, 

And  coldness  o'er  our  efforts  threw  ? 
An'  where  the  proudest,  fellest  foe, 

Frae  hell's  black  porch  that  ever  flew  ? 

Oh,  he  might  conquer  feckless  kings,  — 
Those  bars  in  Nature's  onward  plan,  — 


OUR   ISLAND   CHRISTMAS  EVE.  227 

But  fool  is  he  the  yoke  that  flings 

O'er  the  unshackled  soul  of  man. 
'T  is  like  a  cobweb  on  his  breast, 

That  binds  the  giant  while  asleep ; 
Or  curtain  hung  upon  the  east 

The  daylight  from  the  world  to  keep. 

Here 's  to  the  hands  sae  long  upbore, 

The  Eose  and  Shamrock,  blooming  still ; 
An'  here  's  the  burly  plant  of  yore, 

The  Thistle  of  the  Norlan'  hill ! 
Lang  may  auld  Britain's  banners  pale 

Stream  o'er  the  seas  her  might  has  won  ; 
Lang  may  her  Lions  paw  the  gale 

An'  turn  their  dewlaps  to  the  sun. 

JAMES  HOGG. 

A  great  favorite  of  Governor  SWAIN,   upon  whose  lips  it  often  was.     Taken 
from  a  copy  furnished  by  Governor  J.  H.  CLIFFORD,  of  NEW  BEDFORD. 


OUR   ISLAND   CHRISTMAS   EVE. 

THE  song  bird  has  flown  from  our  sea-girded  isle. 

And  the  greenwood  once  vocal  is  silent  and  sear ; 
The  sun  has  withdrawn  from  the  heaven  his  smile, 

And  deep  in  his  covert  lies  hid  the  red  deer. 

O'er  the  desert  is"  sweeping  the  bleak  wintry  blast, 

And  the  rocks,  they  are  frosted  with  wind-driven  foam ; 

But  the  sailor,  light-hearted,  his  anchor  well-cast, 

In  the  Cove's  friendly  shelter  sleeps  dreaming  of  home. 

From  tree-arch  and  column  moss-garlands  are  waving, 
Like  the  ivy  that  droops  on  the  gray  minster  wall, 

While  the  moon  through  the  cloud-rifts  with  silver  is  paving 
The  dim  forest-aisles  like  a  festival  hall. 


228  THE   GATHERING   OF   THE  HAYS. 

And,  hark !  what  rare  music  swells  around  us  and  o'er  us, 
As  though  on  the  wings  of  the  breezes  were  borne ! 

Tis  the  winds  and  the  waves  join  their  voices  in  chorus, 
To  hail  with  fit  anthem  the  glad  Christmas-  morn. 

The  starlight  that  shone  over  Bethlehem's  plain, 
And  guided  the  shepherds  to  Mary's  sweet  boy, 

To-night  sheds  its  radiant  blessing  again, 

And  fills  the  poor  heart  with  a  treasure  of  joy. 

CAPTAIN  CLARKE. 


THE  GATHEBING   OF  THE  HAYS. 

GATHERING. 

*  MAC  GARADH  !  Mac  Garadh !  red  race  of  the  Tay, 

Ho  !  gather  ho  !  gather  like  hawks  to  the  prey. 
Mac  Garadh,  Mac  Garadh,  Mac  Garadh,  come  fast ; 

The  flame 's  on  the  beacon,  the  horn 's  on  the  blast. 
The  standard  of  Errol  unfolds  its  white  breast, 

And  the  falcon  of  Loncartie  stirs  in  her  nest. 
Come  away,  come  away,  come  to  the  tryst, 

Come  in,  Mac  Garadh,  from  east  and  from  west. 

Mac  Garadh  !  Mac  Garadh !  Mac  Garadh,  come  forth ! 

Come  from  your  bowers  from  south  and  from  north, 
Come  in  all  Gowrie,  Kinnoul,  and  Tweeddale, 

Drumelzier  and  Naughton,  come  locked  in  your  mail. 
Come,  Stuart,  come,  Stuart,  set  up  thy  white  rose ; 

Killour  and  Buccleuch,  bring  thy  bills  and  thy  bows ; 
Come  in,  Mac  Garadh,  come  armed  for  the  fray, — 

Wide  is  the  war-cry,  and  dark  is  the  day. 


THE   GATHERING  OF  THE  HAYS.  229 


QUICK    MAECH. 

The  Hay  !  the  Hay !  the  Hay !  the  Hay  ! 

Mac  Garadh  is  coming,  give  way  !  give  way ! 
The  Hay  !  the  Hay  !  the  Hay  !  the  Hay  ! 

Mac  Garadh  is  coming,  give  way  ! 
Mac  Garadh  is  coming,  clear  the  way ! 

Mac  Garadh  is  coming,  hurra,  hurra ! 
Mac  Garadh  is  coming,  clear  the  way ! 

Mac  Garadh  is  coming,  hurra  ! 

Mac  Garadh  is  coming  like  beam  of  war ; 

The  blood-red  shields  are  glinting  far ; 
The  Stuart  is  up,  his  banner  white 

Is  flung  to  the  breeze  like  flake  of  light. 
Dark  as  the  mountain's  heather  wave, 

The  rose  and  the  thistle  are  coming  brave. 
Bright  as  the  sun  which  gilds  its  thread, 

King  James'  tartan  is  flashing  red. 
Upon  them,  Mac  Garadh,  bill  and  bow ; 

Cry,  Holleu,  Mac  Garadh  !  holleu,  holleu  ! 

CHARGE. 

Mac  Garadh  is  coming !  like  stream  from  the  hill, 
Mac  Garadh  is  coming,  lance,  claymore,  and  bill ! 

Like  thunder's  wide  rattle, 

Is  mingled  the  battle, 
With  cry  of  the  falling  and  shout  of  the  charge ; 

The  lances  are  flashing, 

The  claymores  are  clashing, 
And  ringing  the  arrows  on  buckler  and  targe. 

BATTLE. 

Mac  Garadh  is  coming  !  the  banners  are  shaking, 
The  war-tide  is  turning,  the  phalanx  is  breaking, 


230  THE  JACOBITE'S  PLEDGE. 

The  Southrons  are  flying, 

"  Saint  George  "  vainly  crying, 
And  Brunswick's  white  horse  on  the  field  is  home  down  ; 

The  red  cross  is  shattered, 

The  red  roses  scattered, 
And  bloody  and  torn  the  white  plume  in  its  crown. 

.      PURSUIT. 

Far  shows  the  dark  field  like  the  streams  of  Cairn  Gorin, 
Wild,  broken,  and  red  in  the  skirt  of  the  storm  ; 
Give  the  spur  to  the  steed, 

Give  the  war-cry  its  holleu, 
Cast  loose  to  wild  speed, 

Shake  the  bridle  and  follow. 
The  rout's  in  the  battle, 

Like  blast  in  the  cloud  ; 
The  flight's  mingled  rattle 
Peals  thickly  and  loud. 

Then  holleu,  Mac  Garadh !  holleu,  Mac  Garadh ! 
Holleu,  holleu,  holleu,  Mac  Garadh  ! 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE   JACOBITE'S   PLEDGE. 

HERE  's  a  health  to  them  that 's  awa', 

Here  's  a  health  to  them  that 's  awa' ; 

Here 's  a  health  to  him  that  was  here  yestreen, 

But  durstna  bide  till  day. 

Oh,  wha  winna  drink  it  dry  ? 

Oh,  wha  winna  drink  it  dry  ? 

Wha  winna  drink  to  the  lad  that 's  gane, 

Is  nane  o'  our  company. 


THE   CHANGE.  231 

Let  him  be  swung  on  a  tree, 

Let  him  be  swung  on  a  tree ; 

Wha  winna  drink  to  the  lad  that 's  gane, 

Can  ne'er  be  the  man  for  me. 

It 's  good  to  be  merry  and  wise, 

It 's  good  to  be  honest  and  true, 

It 's  good  to  be  aff  wi'  the  auld  king 

Afore  we  be  on  wi'  the  new. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE   CHANGE. 

STAR  of  the  twilight  gray, 

Where  wast  thou  blinking, 
When  in  the  olden  day, 

Eve  dim  was  sinking  ? 
"  O'er  knight  and  baron's  hall, 

Turret  and  tower, 
O'er  fell  and  forest  tall, 

Green  brake  and  bower." 

• 
Star  of  the  silver  eve, 

What  hast  thou  noted, 
While  o'er  the  tower  and  tree 

High  hast  thou  floated  ? 
"  Blue  blades  and  bonnet  gear, 

Plaids  lightly  daricing, 
Lairs  of  the  dun  deer, 

And  shafts  dimly  glancing." 

Star  of  the  maiden's  dream, 
Star  of  the  gloaming, 


232  GATHERING   OF  ATHOL. 

Where  now  doth  blink  thy  beam, 

When  owls  are  roaming  ? 
"  Where  in  the  baron's  hall 

Green  moss  is  creeping, 
Where  o'er  the  forest's  fall 

Gray  dew  is  weeping." 

Star  of  the  even  still, 

What  now  doth  meet  thee, 
When  from  the  lonely  hill 

Looks  thy  blink  sweetly  ? 
"  Hearths  in  the  wind  bleached  bare, 

Eoofs  in  earth  smouldered, 
Sheep  on  the  dun  deer's  lair, 

Trees  felled  and  mouldered." 

ANONYMOUS. 


GATHERING   OF   ATHOL. 

WHA  will  ride  wi'  gallant  Murray  ? 

Wha  will  ride  wi'  Geordie's  sel'  ? 
He  's  the  flow'r  o'  a'  Glen  Isla, 

And  the  darlin  o'  Dunkel'. 
See  the  white  rose  in  his  bonnet ! 

See  his  banner  o'er  the  Tay  ! 
His  gude  sword  he  now  has  drawn  it, 

And  has  flung  the  sheath  away. 

Every  faithful  Murray  follows ; 

First  of  heroes,  best  of  men  ! 
Every  true  and  trusty  Stewart 

Blythely  leaves  his  native  glen. 
Athol  lads  are  lads  of  honor, 

Westland  rogues  are  rebels  a' : 


O'ER    THE    WATER    TO   CHARLIE.  233 

When  we  come  within  their  border, 
We  may  gar  the  Campbells'  claw. 

Menzies,  he  's  our  friend  and  brother; 

Gask  and  Strowan  are  nae  slack ; 
Noble  Perth  has  ta'en  the  field, 

And  a'  the  Drummonds  at  his  back. 
Let  us  ride  wi'  gallant  Murray, 

Let  us  fight  for  Charlie's  crown ; 
From  the  right  we  '11  never  sinder, 

Till  we  bring  the  tyrants  down. 

Mackintosh,  the  gallant  soldier, 

Wi'  the  Grahams  and  Gordons  gay, 
They  have  ta'en  the  field  of  honor, 

Spits  of  all  their  chiefs  could  say. 
Bend  the  musket,  point  the  rapier, 

Shift  the  brog  for  Lowland  shoe, 
Scour  the  durk,  and  face  the  danger  : 

Mackintosh  has  all  to  do. 

ANONYMOCS. 


O'ER  THE  WATER  TO   CHARLIE. 

COME  boat  me  o'er,  come  row  me  o'er, 

Come  boat  me  o'er  to  Charlie ; 
1 11  gie  John  Ross  auither  bawbee 
To  ferry  me  o'er  to  Charlie. 

We  '11  o'er  the  water,  we  '11  o'er  the  sea, 

We  '11  o'er  the  water  to  Charlie ; 
Come  weel,  come  wo,  we  '11  gather  and  go, 
And  live  or  die  wi'  CharL'e. 


234  HOME,  SWEET  HOME. 

It 's  weel  I  lo'e  iny  Charlie's  name, 
Though  some  there  be  abhor  him  ; 

But,  oh,  to  see  auld  Nick  gaun  harne, 
And  Charlie's  faes  before  him. 
We  '11  o'er  the  water,  &c. 

I  swear  by  moon  and  starns  sae  bright, 

And  sun  that  glances  early, 
If  I  had  twenty  thousand  lives, 

I  'd  gie  them  a'  for  Charlie. 
We  '11  o'er  the  water,  &c. 

I  ance  had  sons,  but  now  hae  nane : 

I  bred  them  toiling  sairly  ; 
And  I  wad  bear  them  a'  again, 
And  lose  them  a'  for  Charlie. 

We  11  o'er  the  water,  we  '11  o'er  the  sea, 

We  '11  o'er  the  water  to  Charlie  ; 
Come  weel,  come  wo,  we  '11  gather  and  go, 
And  live  or  die  wi'  Charlie. 

ANONYMOUS. 


HOME,   SWEET  HOME. 

'Mm  pleasures  and  palaces  though  we  may  roam, 

Be  it  ever  so  humble,  there 's  no  place  like  home ! 

A  charm  from  the  sky  seems  to  hallow  us  there, 

Which,  seek  through  the  world,  is  ne'er  met  with  elsewhere 

Home,  home,  sweet,  sweet  home ! 

There  's  110  place  like  home. 

An  exile  from  home,  splendor  dazzles  in  vain, 
Oh,  give  me  my  lowly  thatched  cottage  again  ; 


OLD   FOLKS  AT  HOME.         ,  235 

The  birds,  singing  gayly,  that  came  at  my  call ;  — 
Give  me  them,  and  the  peace  of  niind  dearer  than  all. 
Home,  sweet,  sweet,  sweet  home ! 

There 's  no  place  like  home. 

JOHN  HOWARD  PAYNE. 

I  personally  knew  Mr.  PAYNE  in  NEW  YOUK  during  1837,  when  with  quaint 
cynicism,  during  the  panic  of  that  year,  he  remarked  to  me,  "I  bear  the  misfor- 
tunes of  my  fellow-creatures  with  the  same  philosophy  which  they  have  always 
shown  towards  mine." 


OLD   FOLKS  AT   HOME. 

WAY  down  upon  de  Swannee  Eibber, 

Far,  far  away, 
Dare 's  wha  my  heart  is  turning  ebber,  — 

Dare 's  wha  de  old  folks  stay. 
All  up  and  down  de  whole  creation 

Sadly  I  roam ; 
Still  longing  for  de  old  plantation, 

And  for  de  old  folks  at  homB. 
All  de  world  am  sad  and  dreary 

Eb'rywhere  I  roam  ; 

Oh,  darkeys,  how  my  heart  grows  weary, 
Far  from  de  old  folks  at  home ! 

All  round  de  little  farm  I  wandered, 

When  I  was  young ; 
Den  many  happy  days  I  squandered, 

Many  de  songs  I  sung. 
When  I  was  playing  wid  my  brudder, 

Happy  was  I ; 

Oh,  take  me  to  my  kind  old  mudder, 
Dare  let  me  live  and  die. 


236  A   LIFE   ON  THE   OCEAN   WAVE. 

All  de  world  am  sad  and  dreary 

Eb'rywhere  I  roam ; 

Oh,  darkeys,  how  my  heart  grows  weary 
Far  from  de  old  folks  at  home ! 

One  little  hut  among  de  bushes, 

One  dat  I  love, 
Still  sadly  to  my  mem'ry  rushes, 

No  matter  where  I  rove. 
When  will  I  see  de  bees  a  humming 

All  round  de  comb  ? 
When  will  I  hear  de  banjo  tumming 

Down  in  my  good  old  home  ? 
All  de  world  am  sad  and  dreary 

Eb'rywhere  I  roam ; 

Oh,  darkeys,  how  my  heart  grows  weary, 
Far  from  de  old  folks  at  home  ! 

STEPHEN  C.  FOSTER. 


A  LIFE   ON   THE   OCEAN   WAVE. 

A  LIFE  on  the  ocean  wave, 

A  home  on  the  rolling  deep, 
Where  the  scattered  waters  rave, 

And  the  winds  their  revels  keep. 
Like  an  eagle  caged  I  pine 

On  this  dull,  unchanging  shore  : 
Oh,  give  me  the  flashing  brine, 

The  spray  and  the  tempest's  roar. 

Once  more  on  the  deck  I  stand, 
Of  my  own  swift-gliding  craft : 

Set  sail,  —  farewell  to  the  land  ; 
The  gale  follows  fair  abaft. 


SPARKLING  AND  BRIGHT.  237 

We  shoot  through  the  sparkling  foam, 

Like  an  ocean  bird  set  free,  — 
Like  the  ocean  bird,  our  home 

We  11  find  far  out  on  the  sea. 

The  land  is  no  longer  in  view, 

The  clouds  have  begun  to  frown ; 
But  with  a  stout  vessel  and  crew, 

We  '11  say,  Let  the  storm  come  down. 
And  the  song  of  our  hearts  shall  be, 

While  the  winds  and  the  waters  rave, 
A  home  on  the  rolling  sea, 

A  life  on  the  ocean  wave. 

EPES  SARGENT. 
A  favorite  Island  song. 


SPARKLING  AND   BRIGHT. 

SPARKLING  and  bright  in  liquid  light, 

Does  the  wine  our  goblets  gleam  in ; 
With  hue  as  red  as  the  rosy  bed 

Which  a  bee  would  choose  to  dream  in. 
Then  fill  to-night,  with  hearts  as  light, 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beaker's  brim, 

And  break  on  the  lips  while  meeting. 

Oh  if  mirth  might  arrest  the  flight 

Of  Time  through  Life's  dominions, 
We  here  awhile  would  now  beguile 

The  graybeard  of  his  pinions  ! 
So  drink  to-night  with  hearts  as  light, 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beakers  brim, 

And  break  on  the  lips  while  meeting. 


238  ANNIE  LAURIE. 

But  since  Delight  can't  tempt  the  wight, 

Nor  fond  Regret  delay  him, 
Nor  Love  himself  can  hold  the  elf, 

Nor  soher  Friendship  stay  him,    ' 
We  11  drink  to-night,  with  hearts  as  light, 

To  loves  as  gay  and  fleeting 
As  bubbles  that  swim  on  the  beaker's  brim, 

And  break  on  the  lips  while  meeting. 

CHARLES  FENNO  HOFFMAN. 
WILL'S  song  ;  a  favorite  Island  song. 


ANNIE   LAURIE. 

MAXWELTON  braes  are  bonnie 

Where  early  fa's  the  dew, 
And  it 's  there  that  Annie  Laurie 

Gie'd  me  her  promise  true,  — 
Gie'd  me  her  promise  true, 

Which  ne'er  forgot  will  be  ; 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 

I  'd  lay  me  doon  and  dee. 

Her  brow  is  like  the  snaw-drift ; 

Her  throat  is  like  the  swan ; 
Her  face  it  is  the  fairest 

That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on, — 
That  e'er  the  sun  shone  on, — 

And  dark  blue  is  her  ee ; 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 

I  'd  lay  me  doon  and  dee. 

Like  the  dew  on  the  gowan  lying 
Is  the  fa'  o'  her  fairy  feet ; 


COME,  BRAVE    WITH  ME   THE  SEA.  239 

And  like  the  winds  in  summer  sighing, 

Her  voice  is  low  and  sweet,  — 
Her  voice  is  low  and  sweet, 

And  she  's  a'  the  world  to  me ; 
And  for  bonnie  Annie  Laurie 
I  'd  lay  me  doon  and  dee. 

ANONYMOUS. 
Sung  by  C.  W.  _—c~— 

COME,   BRAVE   WITH   ME   THE   SEA. 

Am:  "  Suoni  la  Tromba." 

COME,  brave  with  me  the  sea,  love, 

The  empire  of  the  free,  love  ! 

There  shalt  thou  dwell  with  me,  love, 

My  blessing  and  my  pride  ! 
Come,  hasten  with  me  there,  love, 
While  yet  the  wind  is  fair,  love, 
Where  sparkling  billows  foam,  love, 
Where  fate  may  bid  us  roam,  love. 
My  ship  shall  be  thy  home,  love, 

And  thou  a  sailor's  bride ! 

Though  fair  the  earth  may  be,  love, 
It  is  not  like  the  sea,  love, 
When  soars  the  spirit  free,  love, 

As  o'er  its  breast  we  ride. 
Come  then,  dwell  with  me  there,  love, 
Come,  while  the  wind  is  fair,  love, 
Where  sparkling  billows  foam,  love, 

So  boundless  and  so  wide  ; 
With  me  all  danger  dare,  love, 

As  should  a  sailor's  bride. 

ANONYMOUS. 

This  air  has  always  been  a  favorite  of  mine  ever  since  I  first  heard  BADIALLI 
sing  it  in  the  opera  of  "  II  Puritani."  The  band  of  the  First  Massachusetts  Cavalry 
also  played  it  with  great  effect  in  SOUTH  CAROLINA  during  the  war. 


240  THE  DISASTER. 


O   PESCATOE   DELL'    ONDE. 

O  PESCATOR  dell'  onde  Fidelin, 

0  pescator  dell'  onde  Fidel  in, 

Viene  pescar  in  qua  colla  bella  sua  barca, 

Colla  bella  se  ne  va,  Fidelin. 

Non  voglio  cento  scudi  Fidelin, 
Non  voglio  cento  scudi  Fidelin, 
Ne  borsa  ricama  colla  bella  sua  barca, 
Colla  bella  se  ne  va,  Fidelin. 

lo  voun  bazin  d'  amore  Fidelin, 

lo  voun  bazin  d'  amore  Fidelin, 

Che  qual  mi  pagher&  colla  bella  sua  bocca, 

Colla  bella  se  ne  va,  Fidelin. 

ANONYMOUS,  Popular  Venetian,  Sony. 

Sung  by  Mrs.  RUSSELL  STURGIS  at  MACAO. 


THE  DISASTER. 

HE  wandered  through  the  briery  woods, 

And  through  the  tangled  fern, 
And  tore  his  must  n't  mention  'ems, 

And  had  to  put  on  hern. 

ANONYMOUS. 

This  reminds  me  of  a  party  of  young  Boston  men  who  in  their  city  clothes 
were  taken  through  the  Blue  Hill  briers  after  quail.  Returning  home,  one 
of  them  disappeared  and  was  found  in  the  stable  mending  his  torn  garment, 
being  too  modest  to  ask  any  one  to  do  it  for  him.  His  name  was  N.  H.  or 
G.  K.  M. 


HOME  BY  THE  SEA.  241 


HOME  BY  THE   SEA. 

OH,  give  me  a  home  by  the  sea, 

Where  the  white  waves  are  crested  with  foam, 
Where  the  shrill  winds  are  carolling  free, 

As  o'er  the  wild  waters  I  roam. 
For  I  '11  list  to  ocean's  wild  roar 
And  join  in  its  stormiest  glee, 
Nor  ask  in  the  wide  world  for  more 
Than  a  home  by  the  deep  rolling  sea, 

A  home,  a  home, 
A  home  by  the  deep  rolling  sea, 

A  home,  a  home, 
A  home  by  the  deep  rolling  sea. 

At  morn,  when  the  sun  from  the  east 

Comes  mantled  with  purple  and  gold, 
Whose  hues  on  the  billows  are  cast, 

Which  sparkle  with  splendor  untold, 
Oh,  then,  by  the  shore  would  I  stray, 

And  roam  as  the  halcyon,  free, 
From  envy  and  care  far  away, 

In  my  home  by  the  deep  rolling  sea, 
A  home,  a  home,  &c. 

At  eve,  when  the  moon  in  her  pride 
Rides  queen  of  the  soft  summer  night, 

And  gleams  on  the  murmuring  tide, 
With  floods  of  her  silvery  light, 

Oh,  earth  has  no  beauty  so  rare, 
No  place  that  is  dearer  to  me ; 
10 


242         YE  BANKS  AND  BRAES   0'  BONNIE  DOON. 

Then  give  me,  so  free  and  so  fair, 
A  home  by  the  deep  rolling  sea, 

A  home,  a  home,  &c. 

'   ANONYMOUS. 

Sung  by  S.  J.  on  the  "  Rambler,"  in  a  gale  of  wind,  holding  on  to  the  shrouds 
the  little  yacht  under  close  reefs. 


YE  BANKS  AND  BEAES  0'  BONNIE  DOON. 

TUNE  :  "  The  Caledonian  Hunt's  Delight." 

YE  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon, 
How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fresh  and  fair  ? 

How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds, 
An'  I  sae  weary,  f u'  o'  care  ? 

Thou  'It  break  my  heart,  thou  warbling  bird, 
That  wantons  thro'  the  flowering  thorn ; 

Thou  minds  me  o'  departed  joys,  — 
Departed,  never  to  return. 

Thou  'It  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird, 

That  sings  beside  thy  mate ; 
For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang, 

And  wistna  o'  my  fate. 

Aft  hae  I  roved  by  bonnie  Doon, 
To  see  the  rose  and  woodbine  twine; 

And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  love, 
And  fondly  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 

Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose, 
Fu'  sweet  upon  its  thorny  tree ; 
And  my  fause  luver  stole  my  rose, 

But,  ah !  he  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 

BURNS. 
M.  P.  F. 


BRIG N ALL   BANKS.  243 


BEIGNALL  BANKS. 

OH,  Brignall  banks  are  wild  and  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green, 
And  you  may  gather  garlands  there, 

Would  grace  a  summer  queen. 
And  as  I  rode  by  Dalton  Hall, 

Beneath  the  turrets  high, 
A  maiden  on  the  castle  wall 

Was  singing  merrily,  — 

CHORUS. 

"  Oh,  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green ; 
I  'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there, 

Than  reign  our  English  queen." 

"  If,  maiden,  thou  wouldst  wend  with  me, 

To  leave  both  tower  and  town, 
Thou  first  must  guess  what  life  lead  we, 

That  dwell  by  dale  and  down  ? 
And  if  thou  canst  that  riddle  read, 

As  read  full  well  you  may, 
Then  to  the  greenwood  shalt  thou  speed, 

As  blithe  as  Queen  of  May." 

CHORUS. 

Yet  sung  she,  "  Brignall  banks  are  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  are  green ; 
I  'd  rather  rove  with  Edmund  there 

Than  reign  our  English  queen." 


244  BRIGNALL  BANKS. 

"  With  burnished  brand  and  musketoon 

So  gallantly  you  come, 
I  read  you  for  a  bold  Dragoon, 

That  lists  the  tuck  of  drum."  —    • 
"  I  list  no  more  the  tuck  of  drum, 

No  more  the  trumpet  hear ; 
But  when  the  beetle  sounds  his  hum, 

My  comrades  take  the  spear. 

CHORUS. 

"  And,  oh,  though  Brignall  banks  be  fair, 

And  Greta  woods  be  gay, 
Yet  mickle  must  the  maiden  dare 

Would  reign  my  Queen  of  May. 

"  Maiden,  a  nameless  life  I  lead, 

A  nameless  death  I  '11  die ; 
The  fiend  whose  lantern  lights  the  mead, 

Were  better  mate  than  I. 
And  when  I  'm  with  my  comrades  met, 

Beneath  the  greenwood  bough, 
What  once  we  were  we  all  forget, 

Nor  think  what  we  are  now. 

CHORUS. 

"  Yet  Brignall  banks  are  fresh  and  fair, 
And  Greta  woods  are  green, 

And  you  may  gather  garlands  there 
Would  grace  a  summer  queen." 


SCOTT,  Rokeby. 
A  favorite  of  M.  P.  F. 


WHILE   THEE  I  SEEK.  245 


THE   BLUE   JUNIATA. 

WILD  roved  an  Indian  girl,  bright  Alfarata, 
Where  sweep  the  waters  of  the  blue  Juniata ; 

Swift  as  an  antelope,  through  the  forest  going, 

Loose  were  her  jetty  locks,  in  wavy  tresses  flowing. 

Gay  was  the  mountain  song  of  bright  Alfarata, 
Where  sweep  the  waters  of  the  blue  Juniata : 

"  Strong  and  true  my  arrows  are,  in  my  painted  quiver ; 
Swift  goes  my  light  canoe  adown  the  rapid  river." 

So  sang  the  Indian  girl,  bright  Alfarata, 

Where  sweep  the  waters  of  the  blue  Juniata. 

Fleeting  years  have  borne  away  the  voice  of  Alfarata ; 
Still  sweeps  the  river  on,  the  blue  Juniata. 

ANONYMOUS. 

WHILE  THEE   I   SEEK. 

WHILE  thee  I  seek,  protecting  Power ! 

Be  my  vain  wishes  stilled  ; 
And  may  this  consecrated  hour 

With  better  hopes  be  filled. 

Thy  love  the  powers  of  thought  bestowed ; 

To  thee  my  thoughts  would  soar ; 
Thy  mercy  o'er  my  life  has  flowed, 

That  mercy  I  adore  ! 

In  each  event  of  life,  how  clear 

Thy  ruling  hand  I  see ! 
Each  blessing  to  my  soul  more  dear, 

Because  conferred  by  thee. 


246  FREEDOM  OF  THE  MIND. 

In  every  joy  that  crowns  my  days, 

In  every  pain  I  bear, 
My  heart  shall  find  delight  in  praise, 

Or  seek  relief  in  prayer. 

When  gladness  wings  my  favored  hour, 
Thy  love  my  thoughts  shall  fill ; 

Resigned  when  storms  of  sorrow  lower, 
My  soul  shall  meet  thy  will. 

My  lifted  eye  without  a  tear 
The  gathering  storm  shall  see  ; 

My  steadfast  heart  shall  know  no  fear ; 
That  heart  shall  rest  on  thee  ! 

H.  M.  WILLIAMS. 


FREEDOM   OF   THE   MIND. 

HIGH  walls  and  huge  the  body  may  confine, 

And  iron  grates  obstruct  the  prisoner's  gaze, 
And  massive  bolts  may  baffle  his  design, 

And  vigilant  keepers  watch  his  devious  ways ; 
Yet  scorns  th'  immortal  mind  this  base  control ! 

No  chains  can  bind  it,  and  no  cell  enclose  : 
Swifter  than  light,  it  flies  from  pole  to  pole, 

And,  in  a  flash,  from  earth  to  heaven  it  goes ! 
It  leaps  from  mount  to  mount,  —  from  vale  to  vale 

It  wanders,  plucking  honeyed  fruits  and  flowers  ; 
It  visits  home,  to  hear  the  fireside  tale, 

Or  in  sweet  converse  pass  the  joyous  hours : 
'T  is  up  before  the  sun,  roaming  afar, 

And,  in  its  watches,  wearies  every  star ! 

WILLIAM  LLOYD  GARRISON. 
BALTIMORE  JAIL,  1830. 


SHAKSPE ARE'S  EPITAPH.  247 


TELL  HER    I'LL  LOVE  HER. 

TELL  her  I  '11  love  her  while  the  clouds  drop  rain, 

Or  while  there 's  water  in  the  pathless  main  ; 

Tell  her  I  '11  love  her  till  this  life  is  o'er, 

And  then  my  ghost  shall  visit  this  sweet  shore,  — 

Tell  her  I  '11  love  her  till  this  life  is  o'er, 

And  then  my  ghost  shall  visit  this  sweet  shore. 

Tell  her  I  only  ask  she  '11  think  of  me, 
I  '11  love  her  while  there  's  salt  within  the  sea ; 
Tell  her  all  this,  tell  it,  tell  it  o'er  and  o'er, 
I  '11  love  her  while  there 's  salt  within  the  sea ; 
Tell  her  all  this,  tell  it,  tell  it  o'er  and  o'er  : 
The  anchor 's  weighed,  or  I  would  tell  her  more. 


Go  to  Jane  Glover 

And  tell  her  I  love  her, 
And  when  the  moon 's  o'er  the  hill 

I  will  come  to  her. 

ANONYMOUS. 


SHAKSPEARE'S   EPITAPH. 

GOOD  frend  for  Jesus'  sake  forheare 
To  digg  the  dust  enclosed  heare  ; 
Bleste  be  ye  man  yt  spares  these  stones, 
And  curst  be  he  yt  moves  my  bones. 

Attributed  to  SHAKSPEARE. 


248  HOME. 


HOME. 

No,  it  is  not  a  poet's  dream, 

It  does  not  live  in  thought  alone ; 

For  here,  by  Housatonic's  stream, 
Home,  as  she  wrote  of  it,  is  known. 

Here,  where  round  every  rock  and  peak 
Clings  some  tradition  dim  and  hoary, 

And  every  valley  seems  to  speak 

Of  the  lost  Indian's  pride  and  glory ; 

Where  the  pure  mists  long  linger  nigh, 
Like  guardian  Naiads  to. the  rills, 

And  the  vast  shades  flit  silently, 
As  giant  spectres,  o'er  the  hills ; 

Where  neither  slaves  nor  nobles  bend, 
But  all  in  love  aid  one  another ; 

Where  every  stranger  is  a  friend, 
And  every  honest  man  a  brother ; 

Where  all  gives  proof  of  woman's  power, 
The  might  of  nature,  not  of  art ; 

And  day  by  day,  and  hour  by  hour, 
Heart  clingeth  closer  still  to  heart. 

Here  is  a  home,  a  home  in  truth,  — 
One  that  can  chase  away  the  ills 

Of  age,  and  lend  new  joy  to  youth  ; 
A  holy  home  among  the  hills. 


LETTER   OF  FRANKLIN   TO  MR.   S  TEA  HAN.        249 

Here  may  we  see  a  stronger  bond 

Than  interest,  ambition,  pelf, 
Which,  reaching  to  the  world  beyond, 

Still  makes  a  world  within  itself. 

For  though  to  few  the  power  is  given 

To  guide,  to  govern,  or  to  move, 
Yet  .unto  each  all-bounteous  Heaven 

Holds  out  the  Godlike  power  to  love. 

Long  may  that  flame  within  us  burn, 
As  here  each  bounding  heart  it  fills, 

Although  we  never  should  return 
To  this  sweet  home  among  the  hills. 

JAMES  HANDASYD  PERKINS. 

STOCKBRIDGE,  August,   1836.     Written  on  hearing  some  one  say  that  there 
were  no  such  homes  as  CATHERINE  M.  SEDGWICK  describes  in  her  "Home." 


A   LETTER   OF   BENJAMIN   FRANKLIN   TO 
MR.   STRAHAN. 

PHILADELPHIA,  July  5,  1775. 

MR.  STRAHAN,  —  You  are  a  Member  of  Parliament,  and  one 
of  that  majority  which  has  doomed  my  Country  to  Destruction. 
You  have  begun  to  burn  our  towns  and  murder  our  people. 
Look  upon  your  hands!  they  are  stained  with  the  blood  of 
your  relations  !  You  and  I  were  long  friends ;  you  are  now  my 
Enemy,  and  I  am 

Yours,  B.  FRANKLIN. 


250  SPIRITS   WHICH  HOVER   ROUND. 


SPIEITS   WHICH  HOVER   ROUND. 

SPIRITS  which  hover  round  me,  ye  whose  wings 

Beat  back  the  tempter,  whose  sweet  presence  brings 

Calm,  gentle  feelings,  wishes  pure  and  kind, 

An  eye  for  all  God's  beauty,  and  a  mind 

Open  to  all  his  voices,  —  still  be  nigh 

When  the  great  mystery  his  broad  shadow  flings 

Over  earth's  firmest  visions,  till  they  fly 

Like  shadows  of  the  night,  and  teach  me  how  to  die  ! 

When  my  breath  faileth  as  the  summer  air 
Dieth  at  evening ;  when  my  heart,  whose  care 
Jesus  hath  lightened,  throbs,  stops,  throbs  again, 
Then,  slowly  sinking,  ceases  without  pain 
Its  noiseless,  voiceless  labors,  —  still  be  nigh. 
Let  not  the  ghastly  form  of  Death  be  there  ; 
But  to  my  clouded,  yet  clear-seeing  eye, 
Reveal  your  forms  of  light  and  make  me  love  to  die. 

The  pinions  of  the  dark  and  dreaded  one 
Shall  not  then  fan  my  temples ;  when  't  is  done, 
This  hard-fought  fight,  your  fingers  shall  untie 
My  earthward  bonds,  your  voices  silently 
Whisper,  "  Come  home,  your  life  is  but  begun  ;  " 
And  in  your  arms  borne  upward,  far  on  high, 
With  mind  and  heart  grown  to  heaven's  harmony, 
I  shall  know  all,  love  all,  and  find  't  is  life  to  die. 

AJJONYMOUS. 

Copied  by  E.  P.  F. 


MR.   WEDDERBURN  ON  FRANKLIN.  251 


GAYLY  THE  TROUBADOUR. 

GAYLY  the  Troubadour  touched  his  guitar, 
When  he  was  hastening  home  from  the  war ; 
Singing,  "  From  Palestine  hither  I  come. 
Ladye  Love !  Ladye  Love  !  welcome  me  home." 

She  for  the  Troubadour  hopelessly  wept, 
Sadly  she  thought  of  him  when  others  slept ; 
Singing^ "  In  search  of  thee  would  I  might  roam  ! 
Troubadour  !  Troubadour  !  come  to  thy  home." 

Hark  !  't  was  the  troubadour  breathing  her  name, 
Under  the  battlement  softly  he  came ; 
Singing,  "  From  Palestine  hither  I  come. 
Ladye  Love  !  Ladye  Love  !  welcome  me  home." 

T.  H.  BAYLY. 


MR.  WEDDERBURN  ON  FRANKLIN.1 

.  .  .  HERE  is  a  man  who,  with  the  utmost  insensibility  of 
remorse,  stands  up  and  avows  himself  the  author  of  all.  I  can 
compare  it  only  to  Zanga  in  Dr.  Young's  "  Revenge,"  — 

"  Know  then  't  was  I  ; 
I  forged  the  letter,  I  disposed  the  picture  ; 
I  hated,  I  despised,  and  I  destroy." 

1  Benjamin  Franklin,  while  in  England  as  agent  of  the  Massachusetts  Colony, 
sent  home  the  famous  "  Hutehinson  letters."  On  learning  that  a  duel  had  been 
fought  on  account  of  the  supposed  responsibility  of  that  act,  he  published  a 
letter  stating  that  he  alone  was  responsible  for  the  letters  being  transmitted  to 
America.  The  above  extract  is  from  the  speech  of  Mr.  Wedderburn  in  the 
English  Privy  Council  ;  referring  to  Franklin  and  his  avowed  connection  with 
that  transaction. 


252  I'VE  BEEN  ROAMING. 


MEET   ME    BY  MOONLIGHT. 

MEET  me  by  moonlight  alone, 

And  then  I  will  tell  you  a  tale, 
Must  be  told  by  the  moonlight  alone, 

In  the  grove  at  the  end  of  the  vale. 
You  must  promise  to  come,  for  I  said 

I  would  show  the  night  flowers  their  queen : 
Nay,  turn  not  away  that  sweet  head ; 

'T  is  the  loveliest  ever  was  seen ! 

Daylight  may  do  for  the  gay, 

The  thoughtless,  the  heartless,  the  free; 
But  there 's  something  about  the  moon's  ray 

That  is  sweeter  to  you  and  to  me : 
Oh !  remember,  be  sure  to  be  there, 

For  though  dearly  a  moonlight  I  prize, 
I  care  not  for  all  in  the  air, 

If  I  want  the  sweet  light  of  your  eyes. 

J.  A.  WADE. 


I'VE   BEEN   EOAMING. 

I  'VE  been  roaming  where  the  meadow  dew  is  sweet, 
And  I  'm  coming  with  its  pearls  upon  my  feet; 
I  Ve  been  roaming  o'er  the  rose  and  lily  fair, 
And  I  'm  coming  with  their  blossoms  in  my  hair. 

I  've  been  roaming  where  the  honeysuckle  creeps, 
And  I  'm  coming  with  its  kisses  on  my  lips ; 
I  've  been  roaming  over  hill  and  over  plain, 
And  I  'm  coming  to  my  bower  back  again. 

GEORGE  SOANE. 


SHOULD  HE    UPBRAID.  253 


BEGONE!  DULL  CARE. 

BEGONE  !  dull  care, 
I  prithee  begone  from  me, 

Begone!  dull  care, 
You  and  I  shall  never  agree. 
•  Long  time  hast  thou  been  tarrying  here, 

And  fain  thou  wouldst  me  kill, 
But  i'  faith,  dull  care, 

Thou  never  shalt  have  thy  will. 

Too  much  care 
Will  make  a  young  man  turn  gray, 

And  too  much  care 
Will  turn  an  old  man  to  clay. 
My  wife  shall  dance  and  I  will  sing, 

So  merrily  pass  the  day ; 
For  I  hold  it  one  of  the  wisest  things, 
To  drive  dull  care  away. 

ANONYMOUS  (seventeenth  century). 
Sung  by  Dr.  JENNISON. 


SHOULD  HE  UPBRAID. 

SHOULD  he  upbraid,  I  '11  own  that  he  prevail, 
And  sing  as  sweetly  as  the  nightingale  ; 
Say  that  he  frown,  I  '11  say  his  looks  I  view 
As  morning  roses  newly  tipped  with  dew ; 
Say  he  be  mute,  I  '11  answer  with  a  smile, 
And  dance,  and  play,  and  wrinkled  care  beguile. 

ANONYMOUS. 


254  BID  ME  DISCOURSE. 

LULLABY   OF  AN   INFANT   CHIEF. 

AIR:  "Cadul  gu  lo." 

OH,  hush  thee,  my  babie,  thy  sire  was  a  knight, 

Thy  mother  a  lady  both  lovely  and  bright ; 

The  woods  and  the  glens,  from  the  towers  which  we  see, 

They  all  are  belonging,  dear  babie,  to  thee. 

Oh,  ho  ro,  i  ri  ri,  cadul  gu  lo, 

Oh,  ho  ro,  i  ri  ri,  &c. 

Oh,  fear  not  the  bugle,  though  loudly  it  blows ; 
It  calls  but  the  warders  that  guard  thy  repose. 
Their  bows  would  be  bended,  their  blades  would  be  red, 
Ere  the  step  of  a  foeman  draws  near  to  thy  bed. 
Oh,  ho  ro,  i  ri  ri,  &c. 

Oh,  hush  thee,  my  babie,  the  time  soon  will  come 
When  thy  sleep  shall  be  broken  by  trumpet  and  drum ; 
Then  hush  thee,  my  darling,  take  rest  while  you  may, 
For  strife  comes  with  manhood,  and  waking  with  day. 

Oh,  ho  ro,  i  ri  ri,  &c. 

SCOTT. 


BID  ME  DISCOURSE. 

BID  me  discourse,  I  will  enchant  thine  ear, 

Or  like  a  fairy  trip  upon  the  green ; 
Or  like  a  nymph,  with  bright  and  flowing  hair, 

Dance  on  the  sands,  and  yet  no  footing  seen. 

SHAKSPEARE,  Venus  and  Adonis. 


THE  BANKS   OF   THE  BLUE  MOSELLE.  255 


OH,   BID   YOUR  FAITHFUL  AEIEL   FLY. 

OH,  bid  your  faithful  Ariel  fly 

To  the  farthest  Indian  sky  ! 

And  then,  at  thy  afresh  command, 

I  '11  traverse  o'er  the  silver  sand, 

I'll  climb  the  mountains,  plunge  the  deep: 

I,  like  mortals,  never  sleep. 

I  '11  do  your  task,  whate'er  it  be,  / 
Not  with  ill  will,  but  merrily. 
Oh,  bid  your  faithful  Ariel  fly 
To  the  farthest  Indian  sky  ! 
And  then,  at  thy  afresh  command, 
I  '11  traverse  o'er  the  silver  sand. 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE  BANKS  OF  THE  BLUE  MOSELLE. 

WHEN  the  glow-worm  gilds  the  elfin  flower 

That  clings  round  the  ruined  shrine 
Where  first  we  met,  where  first  we  loved, 

And  I  confessed  me  thine, 
'T  is  there  I  '11  fly  to  meet  thee  still, 

At  sound  of  vesper  bell, 
In  the  starry  light  of  a  summer  night, 

On  the  banks  of  the  blue  Moselle. 

If  the  cares  of  life  should  shade  thy  brow, 
Yes,  yes,  in  our  native  bowers 

My  lute  and  heart  might  best  accord 
To  tell  of  happier  hours ; 


256  TITANIA'S   SONG. 

Yes,  there  I  '11  soothe  thy  griefs  to  rest, 

Each  sigh  of  sorrow  quell, 
In  the  starry  light  of  a  summer  night, 

On  the  banks  of  the  blue  Moselle." 

ANONYMOUS. 


TITANIA'S   SONG. 

CHILD  of  earth  with  the  golden  hair, 
Thy  soul 's  too  pure,  and  thy  face  too  fair, 
To  dwell  with  the  creatures  of  mortal  mould, 
Whose  lips  are  warm  as  their  hearts  are  cold. 

Boarn,  roam  to  our  fairy  home, 

Ch^ld  of  earth  with  the  golden  hair. 

I  '11  rob  of  its  sweets  the  humblebee, 
I  '11  crush  the  wine  from  the  cowslip  tree, 
I  '11  pull  thee  berries,  1 11  heap  thy  bed, 
Of  downy  moss  and  the  poppies  red. 
Eoam,  roam,  &c. 

Thou  shalt  dance  with  the  fairy  queen, 
Through  summer  nights  on  the  moonlit  green, 
To  music  murmuring  sweeter  far 
Than  ever  was  heard  'neath  the  morning's  star. 
Eoam,  roam,  &c. 

Dim  sleep  shall  woo  thee,  my  darling  boy, 
In  her  mildest  mood  with  dreams  of  joy ; 
And  when  the  morning  ends  her  reign, 
Pleasure  shall  bid  thee  welcome  again. 
Eoam,  roam,  &c. 

ANONYMOUS. 


/  REMEMBER,  I  REMEMBER.  257 


IS  THERE  A   HEART   THAT   NEVER  LOVED? 

Is  there  a  heart  that  never  loved, 

Or  felt  soft  woman's  sigh  ? 
Is  there  a  man  can  mark  unmoved 

Dear  woman's  tearful  eye  ? 
Oh,  bear  him  to  some  distant  shore, 

Or  solitary  cell, 
Where  none  but  savage  monsters  roar, 

And  love  ne'er  deigned  to  dwell 

For  there  's  a  charm  in  woman's  eye, 

A  language  in  her  tear, 
A  spell  in  every  sacred  sigh, 

To  man,  to  virtue,  dear. 
And  he  who  could  resist  her  smiles 

With  brutes  alone  should  live, 
Nor  taste  that  joy  which  care  beguiles, 

That  joy  her  virtues  give. 

MOORE. 


I   REMEMBER,   I   REMEMBER 

I  REMEMBER,  I  remember, 

How  my  childhood  fleeted  by,  — 
The  mirth  of  its  December, 

And  the  warmth  of  its  July. 
On  my  brow,  love,  —  on  my  brow,  love, 

There  are  no  signs  of  care  ; 
But  my  pleasures  are  not  now,  love, 

What  childhood's  pleasures  were. 

17 


258  THOU  SOFT-FLOWING  AVON. 

Then  the  bowers,  then  the  bowers, 

Were  as  blithe  as  blithe  could  be, 
And  all  their  radiant  flowers, 

Were  coronals  for  me : 
Gems  to-night,  love,  —  gems  to-night,  love, 

Are  gleaming  in  my  hair ; 
But  they  are  not  half  so  bright,  love, 

As  childhood's  roses  were. 

I  was  singing,  I  was  singing, 

And  my  songs  were  idle  words  ; 
But  from  my  heart  was  springing 

Wild  music  like  a  bird's : 
Now  I  sing,  love,  —  now  I  sing,  love, 

A  fine  Italian  air ; 
But  it 's  not  so  fine  a  thing,  love, 

As  childhood's  ballads  were. 

I  was  merry,  I  was  merry, 

When  my  little  lovers  came, 
With  a  lily,  or  a  cherry, 

Or  a  new  invented  game : 
Now  I  Ve  you,  love,  —  now  I  Ve  you,  love, 

To  kneel  before  me  there; 
But  you  know  you  're  not  so  true,  love, 

As  childhood's  lovers  were. 

W.  M.  PRAED. 


THOU   SOFT-FLOWING    AVON. 

THOU  soft-flowing  Avon,  by  thy  silver  stream, 
Of  things  more  than  mortal  -thy  Shakspeare  would  dream ; 
The  fairies  by  moonlight  dance  round  the  green  bed, 
For  hallowed  the  turf  is  which  pillowed  his  head. 


LOVE'S  RITORNELLA.  259 

The  love-stricken  maiden,  the  soft-sighing  swain, 
Here  rove  without  danger  and  sigh  without  pain ; 
The  sweet  bud  of  beauty  no  blight  shall  here  dread, 
For  hallowed  the  turf  is  which  pillowed  his  head. 

Here  youth  shall  be  famed  for  their  love  and  their  truth, 
And  cheerful  old  age  feel  the  spirit  of  youth ; 
For  the  raptures  of  fancy  here  poets  shall  tread, 
For  hallowed  the  turf  is  that  pillowed  his  head. 

Flow  on,  silver  Avon,  in  song  ever  flow ! 
Be  the  swans  on  thy  borders  still  whiter  than  snow ! 
Ever  full  be  thy  stream,  like  his  fame  may  it  spread, 
And  the  turf  ever  hallowed  which  pillowed  his  head ! 

DAVID  GARRICK. 


.LOVE'S   EITOENELLA. 

"  GENTLE  Zitella,  whither  away  ? 

Love's  Kitornella,  list  while  I  play." 

"  No  !  I  have  lingered  too  long  on  the  road, 

Night  is  advancing,  the  brigand  's  abroad  ; 

Lonely  Zitella  hath  too  much  to  fear, 

Love's  Eitornella  she  may  not  hear." 

"  Charming  Zitella,  why  shouldst  thou  care  ? 

Night  is  not  darker  than  thy  raven  hair ; 

And  those  bright  eyes  if  the  brigand  should  see, 

Thou  art  the  robber,  the  captive  he. 

Gentle  Zitella,  banish  thy  fear : 

Love's  Eitornella  tarry  and  hear." 

Simple  Zitella,  beware !  oh,  beware  ! 
List  ye  no  ditty,  grant  ye  no  prayer ! 


260  SOLDIER,   REST! 

To  your  light  footsteps  let  terror  add  wings, 
'T  is  Massaroni  himself  who  now  sings,  — 
"  Gentle  Zitella,  banish  thy  fear ; 
Love's  Eitornella  tarry  and  hear." 


ANONYMOUS. 


SOLDIER,  EEST! 

"  SOLDIER,  rest !  thy  warfare  o'er, 

Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking ; 
Dream  of  battled  fields  no  more, 

Days  of  danger,  nights  of  waking. 
In  our  isle's  enchanted  hall, 

Hands  unseen  thy  couch  are  strewing, 
Fairy  strains  of  music  fall, 

Every  sense  in  slumber  dewing. 
Soldier,  rest !  thy  warfare  o'er, 
Dream  of  fighting  fields  no  more ; 
Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking, 
Morn  of  toil,  nor  night  of  waking. 

"  No  rude  sound  shall  reach  thine  ear, 

Armor's  clang,  or  war-steed  champing, 
Trump  nor  pibroch  summon  here 

Mustering  clan,  or  squadron  tramping. 
Yet  the  lark's  shrill  fife  may  come 

At  the  daybreak  from  the  fallow, 
And  the  bittern  sound  his  drum, 

Booming  from  the  sedgy  shallow. 
Ruder  sounds  shall  none  be  near ; 
Guards  nor  warders  challenge  here, 
Here  's  no  war-steed's  neigh  and  champing, 
Shouting  clans,  or  squadrons  stamping." 

She  paused,  then  blushing  led  the  lay, 
To  grace  the  stranger  of  the  day ; 


LEE Z IE  LINDSAY.  261 

Her  mellow  notes  awhile  prolong 
The  cadence  of  the  flowing  song, 
Till  to  her  lips,  in  measured  frame, 
The  minstrel  verse  spontaneous  came. 

"  Huntsman,  rest !  thy  chase  is  done, 

While  our  slumbrous  spells  assail  ye, 
Dream  not,  with  the  rising  sun, 

Bugles  here  shall  sound  reveille. 
Sleep  !  the  deer  is  in  his  den  ; 

Sleep  !  thy  hounds  are  by  thee  lying,  — 
Sleep  !  nor  dream  in  yonder  glen 

How  thy  gallant  steed  lay  dying. 
Huntsman,  rest !  thy  chase  is  done  ; 
Think  not  of  the  rising  sun, 
For  at  dawning  to  assail  ye, 
Here  no  bugles  sound  reveille." 

SCOTT,  Lady  of  the  Lake. 
Repeated  with  great  effect  by  W.  S.  at  SWAN  ISLAND. 


LEEZIE   LINDSAY. 

"  WILL  ye  gang  to  the  Hielan's,  Leezie  Lindsay  ? 

Will  ye  gang  to  the  Hielan's  wi'  me  ? 
Will  ye  gang  to  the  Hielan's,  Leezie  Lindsay, 

My  bride  and  my  darling  to 'be?" 

"  To  gang  to  the  Hielan's  wi'  you,  sir, 

I  dinna  ken  how  that  may  be  ; 
For  I  ken  na  the  Ian'  that  ye  live  in, 

Nor  ken  I  the  lad  I  'm  gaun  wi' ! " 

"  O,  Leezie  lass,  ye  maun  ken  little 
If  sae  be  that  ye  dinna  ken  me ! 


262  LIVE    WITH  ME  AND  BE  MY  LOVE. 

My  name  is  Lord  Konald  Mac  Donald, 
A  chieftain  o'  high  degree." 

She  has  kilted  her  coats  o'  green  satin, 
She  has  kilted  them  up  to  the  knee, 
And  she 's  aff  wi'  Lord  Eonald  Mac  Donald, 
His  bride  an'  his  daiiin'  to  be. 

ANONYMOUS. 
Sung  by  Mrs.  LONG  and  by  Mr.  ANGIER. 


LIVE   WITH   ME  AND   BE  MY  LOVE. 

COME  live  with  me  and  be  my  love, 
And  we  will  all  the  pleasures  prove 
That  hills  and  valleys,  dales  and  fields, 
And  all  the  craggy  mountains  yields. 
There -will  we  sit  upon  the  rocks, 
And  see  the  shepherds  feed  their  flocks 
By  shallow  rivers,  to  whose  falls 
Melodious  birds  sing  madrigals. 
And  will  I  make  thee  beds  of  roses, 
With  a  thousand  fragrant  posies  ; 
A  cap  of  flowers,  and  a  kirtle 
Embroidered  all  with  leaves  of  myrtle. 
A  gown  made  of  the  finest  wool, 
Which  from  our  pretty  lambs  we  pull ; 
Slippers  lined  choicely  for  the  cold, 
With  buckles  of  the  purest  gold. 
A  belt  of  straw  and  ivy  buds, 
With  coral  clasps  and  amber  studs. 
The  shepherd  swains  shall  dance  and  sing 
For  thy  delight,  each  May  morning  ; 
And  if  these  pleasures  may  thee  move, 
Then  live  with  me  and  be  my  love. 

CHRISTOPHER  MARLOWE. 


THE  LARK.  2.63 


THE  MLNSTKEL'S  BEQUEST. 

SUMMER  eve  is  gone  and  past, 
Summer  dew  is  falling  fast : 
I  have  wandered  all  the  day, 
Do  not  bid  me  farther  stray : 
Gentle  hearts  of  gentle  kin, 
Take  the  wandering  harper  in. 

I  have  song  of  war  for  knight, 
Lay  of  love  for  lady  bright, 
Fairy  tale  to  lull  the  heir, 
Goblin  grim  the  maids  to  scare  : 
Dark  the  night,  and  long  till  day, 
Do  not  bid  me  farther  stray. 

Ancient  lords  had  fair  regard 
For  the  harp  and  for  the  bard : 
Baron's  race  throve  never  well 
Where  the  curse  of  minstrel  fell ; 
If  you  love  your  noble  kin, 
Take  the  weary  harper  in. 

SCOTT,  Rokeby. 


THE   LARK. 

BIRD  of  the  wilderness, 
Blithesome  and  cumberless, 

Sweet  be  thy  matin  o'er  moorland  and  lea ! 
Emblem  of  happiness, 
Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place,  — 

Oh,  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee ! 


264  YE  GENTLEMEN  OF  ENGLAND. 

Wild  is  thy  lay,  and  loud, 

Far  in  the  downy  cloud, 
Love  gives  it  energy,  love  gave  it  birth. 

Where,  on  thy  dewy  wing, 

Where  art  thou  journeying? 
Thy  lay  is  in  heaven,  thy  love  is  on  earth. 

O'er  fell  and  fountain  sheen, 

O'er  moor  and  mountain  green, 
O'er  the  red  streamer  that  heralds  the  day ; 

Over  the  cloudlet  dim, 

Over  the  rainbow's  rim, 
Musical  cherub,  soar,  singing,  away ! 

Then,  when  the  gloaming  comes, 

Low  in  the  heather  blooms 
Sweet  will  thy  welcome  and  bed  of  love  be. 

Emblem  of  happiness, 

Blest  is  thy  dwelling-place,— 
Oh,  to  abide  in  the  desert  with  thee ! 

JAMES  HOGG. 


YE   GENTLEMEN"  OF   ENGLAND. 

YE  gentlemen  of  England, 

That  live  at  home  at  ease, 
Ah,  little  do  you  think  upon 

The  dangers  of  the  seas  ! 
Give  ear  unto  the  mariners, 

And  they  will  plainly  show 
All  the  cares  and  the  fears 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

All  you  that  will  be  seamen 
Must  bear  a  valiant  heart, 


YE  GENTLEMEN  OF  ENGLAND.  265 

For  when  you  come  upon  the  seas,  , 

You  must  not  think  to  start : 
Nor  once  to  be  faint-hearted, 

In  rain,  hail,  blow,  or  snow, 
Nor  to  think  for  to  shrink 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  lawyer  and  the  usurer, 

That  sit  in  gowns  of  fur, 
In  closets  warm  can  take  no  harm,  — 

Abroad  they  need  not  stir : 
When  winter  fierce  with  cold  doth  pierce, 

And  beats  with  hail  and  snow, 
We  are  sure  to  endure, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

Then  courage,  all  brave  mariners, 

And  never  be  dismayed,  — 
Whilst  we  have  bold  adventurers, 

We  ne'er  shall  want  a  trade : 
Our  merchants  will  employ  us 

To  fetch  them  wealth,  I  know ; 
Then  be  bold,  —  work  for  gold, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

When  tempests  are  blown  over, 

And  greatest  fears  are  past, 
In  weather  fair,  and  temperate  air, 

We  straight  lie  down  to  rest ; 
But  when  the  billows  tumble, 

And  waves  do  furious  grow, 
Then  we  rouse,  up  we  rouse, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 


266  THE  DASHING    WHITE   SERGEANT. 

When  we  return  in  safety, 

With  wages  for  our  pains, 
The  tapster  and  the  vintner 

Will  help  to  share  our  gains : 
We  '11  call  for  liquor  roundly, 

And  pay  before  we  go; 
Then  we  '11  roar  on  the  shore, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

MARTVN  PARKER. 
I  heard  this  sung  by  Admiral  GOLDSBORO'  when  he  was  a  Lieutenant. 


THE  DASHING  WHITE   SERGEANT. 

IF  I  had  a  beau, 

For  a  soldier  who  'd  go, 

Do  you  think  I  'd  say  no  ? 
No,  no,  not  I. 

When  his  red  coat  I  saw, 

Not  a  tear  would  it  draw ; 
But  I'd  give  him  eclat  for  his  bravery  ! 
If  an  army  of  Amazons  e'er  came  in  play, 
As  a  dashing  white  sergeant  I  'd  march  away. 

When  my  soldier  is  gone, 

Do  you  think  1  'd  take  on, 

Or  sit  moping  forlorn  ? 
No,  no,  not  I. 

His  fame  my  concern, 

How  my  bosom  would  burn, 
When  I  saw  him  return  crowned  with  victory ! 
If  an  army  of  Amazons  e'er  came  in  play, 
As  a  dashing  white  sergeant  I  'd  inarch  away. 

GENERAL  BURGOYNE. 


TOM  BOWLING.  267 


TOM  BOWLING. 

HERE,  a  sheer  hulk,  lies  poor  Tom  Bowling, 

The  darling  of  our  crew  ; 
No  more  he  '11  hear  the  tempest  howling, 

For  death  has  broached  him  to. 
His  form  was  of  the  manliest  beauty, 

His  heart  was  kind  and  soft ; 
Faithful  below  he  did  his  duty, 

But  now  he  's  gone  aloft. 

Tom  never  from  his  word  departed, 

His  virtues  were  so  rare ; 
His  friends  were  many  and  true-hearted, 

His  Poll  was  kind  and  fair. 
And  then  he  'd  sing  so  blithe  and  jolly,  — 

Ah,  many 's  the  time  and  oft ! 
But  mirth  is  turned  to  melancholy, 

For  Tom  is  gone  aloft. 

Yet  shall  poor  Tom  find  pleasant  weather, 

When  He,  who  all  commands, 
Shall  give,  to  call  life's  crew  together, 

The  word  to  pipe  all  hands. 
Thus  Death,  w^ho  kings  and  tars  despatches, 

In  vain  Tom's  Ufe  has  doffed ; 
For,  though  his  bo.dy  's  under  hatches, 

His  soul  has  gone  aloft. 

CHARLES  DIBDIN. 

I  remember  J.  HOWARD,  of  SPRINGFIELD,  singing  this. 


268  THE   TWINS. 


THE   TWINS. 

IN  form  and  feature,  face  and  limb, 

I  grew  so  like  my  brother, 
That  folks  got  taking  me  for  him, 

And  each  for  one  another. 
It  puzzled  all  our  kith  and  kin, 

It  reached  a  fearful  pitch ; 
For  one  of  us  was  born  a  twin, 

And  not  a  soul  knew  which. 

One  day,  to  make  the  matter  worse, 

Before  our  names  were  fixed, 
As  we  were  being  washed  by  nurse, 

We  got  completely  mixed ; 
And  thus,  you  see,  by  fate's  decree, 

Or  rather  nurse's  whim, 
My  brother  John  got  christened  me, 

And  I  got  christened  him. 

This  fatal  likeness  ever  dogged 

My  footsteps  when  at  school ; 
And  I  was  always  getting  flogged, 

When  John  turned  out  a  fool. 
I  put  this  question,  fruitlessly, 

To  every  one  I  knew  : 
"  What  would  you  do,  if  you  were  me, 

To  prove  that  you  were  you  ? " 

Our  close  resemblance  turned  the  tide 

Of  my  domestic  life, 
For  somehow  my  intended  bride 

Became  my  brother's  wife. 


SIGH  NO  MORE,  LADIES.  269 

In  fact,  year  after  year  the  same 

Absurd  mistakes  went  on ; 
And  when  I  died,  the  neighbors  came 

And  buried  brother  John. 

HENRY  S.  LEIGH. 

One  of  MALCOLM'S  songs,  associated  with  the  intense  enjoyment  of  Mr.  EMEU- 
SON,  who  could  never  laugh  long  enough  over  it. 


CEABBED   AGE  AND   YOUTH. 

CEABBED  age  and  youth  cannot  live  together : 

Youth  is  full  of  pleasance,  age  is  full  of  care ; 

Youth  like  summer  morn,  age  like  winter  weather ; 

Youth  like  summer  brave,  age  like  winter  bare ; 

Youth  is  full  of  sport,  age's  breath  is  short; 

Youth  is  nimble,  age  is  lame ; 

Youth  is  hot  and  bold,  age  is  weak  and  cold  ; 

Youth  is  wild,  and  age  is  tame. 

Age,  I  do  abhor  thee ;  youth,  I  do  adore  thee. 

Oh,  my  love,  my  love  is  young  ! 

Age,  I  do  defy  thee.     Oh,  sweet  shepherd,  hie  thee, 

For  methinks  thou  stay'st  too  long. 

SHAKSPEARE,  Passionate  Pilgrim, 


SIGH   NO   MORE,   LADIES. 

SIGH  no  more,  ladies,  sigh  no  more  : 

Men  were  deceivers  ever. 
One  foot  in  sea,  and  one  on  shore ; 
To  one  thing  constant  never. 

SHAKSPEARE, 
Much  Ado  about  Nothing, 


270        THE   SOLDIER    TIRED   OF   WAR'S  ALARMS. 


THE  CAMPBELLS  AEE   COMIN'. 

(Traditional.) 

THE  Campbells  are  comin',  oho,  oho  ! 

The  Campbells  are  comin'  to  bonnie  Lochleven ; 

The  Campbells  are  comin',  oho,  oho ! 

Upon  the  Lomonds  I  lay,  I  lay, 

I  looked  down  to  bonnie  Lochleven, 

And  saw  three  bonnie  pipers  play. 

Great  Argyle,  he  goes  before ; 
He  makes  the  cannons  and  guns  to  roar. 
Wi'  sound  o'  trumpet,  pipe,  and  drum, 
The  Campbells  are  comin',  oho,  oho  ! 
The  Campbells  are  comin',  &c. 

The  Campbells  they  are  a'  in  arms, 
Their  loyal  faith  and  truth  to  show ; 
Wi'  banners  rattlin'  in  the  wind, 
The  Campbells  are  comin'  oho,  oho  ! 

The  Campbells  are  comin',  &c. 

ANONYMOUS. 

A  nursery  song  which  the  grandchildren  will  all  recognize. 


THE   SOLDIER   TIRED   OF   WAR'S   ALARMS. 

THE  soldier  tired  of  war's  alarms 
Forswears  the  clang  of  hostile  arms, 
And  scorns  the  spear  and  shield  ; 
But  if  the  brazen  trumpet  sound, 
He  burns  with  conquest  to  be  crowned, 


And  dares  again  the  field. 


ANONYMOUS. 


THE  PARISH  PRIEST   TO  HIS  SUCCESSOR.         271 


REQUIEM   FOR  A.  YOUNG   SOLDIER. 

BREATHE,  trumpets,  breathe  slow  notes  of  saddest  wailing ; 

Sadly  responsive  peal,  ye  muffled  drums ! 
Comrades,  with  downcast  eyes  and  muskets  trailing, 

Attend  him  home,  —  the  youthful  warrior  comes. 

Upon  his  shield,  upon  his  shield  returning, 
Borne  from  the  field  of  honor  where  he  fell, 

Glory  and  Grief,  together  clasped  in  mourning, 
His  fame,  his  fate,  with  sobs  exulting  tell. 

Wrap  round  his  breast  the  flag  his  breast  defended, 
His  country's  flag,  in  battle's  front  enrolled : 

For  it  he  died ;  on  earth  forever  ended, 

His  brave  young  life  lives  in  each  sacred  fold. 

With  proud,  proud  tears,  by  tinge  of  shame  untainted, 
Bear  him,  and  lay  him  gently  in  his  grave ; 

Above  the  hero  write,  —  the  young  half -sainted,  — 
"  His  country  asked  his  life ;  his  life  he  gave." 

GEORGE  LUNT. 
Referring  to  Colonel  LOWELL. 


THE  PARISH  PRIEST  TO  HIS  SUCCESSOR. 

IF  thou  dost  find 

A  house  built  to  thy  mind 

Without  thy  cost, 
Serve  thou  the  more 
God  and  the  poor  ; 

My  labor  is  not-lost. 

HERBERT. 


272  THE   SOLDIER'S  DREAM. 


THE   SOLDIEE'S  DBEAM. 

OUK  bugles  sang  truce  ;  for  the  night-cloud  had  lowered, 
And  the  sentinel  stars  set  their  watch  in  the  sky, 

And  thousands  had  sunk  on  the  ground  overpowered,  — 
The  weary  to  sleep,  and  the  wounded  to  die. 

When  reposing  that  night  on  my  pallet  of  straw, 
By  the  wolf-scaring  fagot  that  guarded  the  slain, 

At  the  dead  of  the  night  a  sweet  vision  I  saw, 
And  thrice  ere  the  morning  I  dreamt  it  again. 

Methought  from  the  battle-field's  dreadful  array 
Far,  far  I  had  roamed  on  a  desolate  track : 

'T  was  autumn,  —  and  sunshine  arose  on  the  way 
To  the  home  of  my  fathers,  that  welcomed  me  back. 

I  flew  to  the  pleasant  fields,  traversed  so  oft 

In  life's  morning  march,  when  my  bosom  was  young ; 

I  heard  my  own  mountain-goats  bleating  aloft, 

And  knew  the  sweet  strain  that  the  corn-reapers  sung. 

Then  pledged  we  the  wine-cup,  and  fondly  I  swore 

From  my  home  and  my  weeping  friends  never  to  part ; 

My  little  ones  kissed  me  a  thousand  times  o'er, 
And  my  wife  sobbed  aloud  in  her  fulness  of  heart. 

"Stay,  stay  with  us, — rest;  thou  art  weary  and  worn." 
And  fain  was  their  war-broken  soldier  to  stay ; 

But  sorrow  returned  with  the  dawning  of  morn, 
And  the  voice  in  my  dreaming  ear  melted  away. 

CAMPBELL. 


INCIDENT  OF  THE  FRENCH  CAMP.  273 


INCIDENT   OF  THE   FKENCH   CAMP. 

You  know,  we  French  stormed  Ratisbon : 

A  mile  or  so  away, 
On  a  little  mound,  Napoleon 

Stood  on  our  storming-day  ; 
With  neck  out-thrust,  you  fancy  how, 

Legs  wide,  arms  locked  behind, 
As  if  to  balance  the  prone  brow, 

Oppressive  with  its  mind. 

Just  as  perhaps  he  mused,  "  My  plans, 

That  soar,  to  earth  may  fall, 
Let  once  my  army-leader,  Lannes, 

Waver  at  yonder  wall,"  — 
Out  'twixt  the  battery-smokes  there  flew 

A  rider,  bound  on  bound 
Full-galloping ;  nor  bridle1  drew 

Until  he  reached  the  mound. 

Then  off  there  flung  in  smiling  joy, 

And  held  himself  erect 
By  just  his  horse's  'mane,  a  boy : 

You  hardly  could  suspect 
(So  tight  he  kept  his  lips  compressed,  , 

Scarce  any  blood  came  through), 
You  looked  twice  ere  you  saw  his  breast 

Was  all  but  shot  in  two. 

"  Well,"  cried  he,  "  Emperor,  by  God's  grace 

We  've  got  you  Ratisbon  ! 
The  Marshal 's  in  the  market-place, 

And  you  '11  be  there  anon 
18 


274  HYMNE  DES  MARSEILLAIS. 

To  see  your  flag-bird  flap  his  vans 

Where  I,  to  heart's  desire, 
Perched  him  ! "     The  chief's  eye  flashed ;  his  plans 

Soared  up  again  like  fire. 

The  chief's  eye  flashed,  but  presently 

Softened  itself,  as  sheathes 
A  film  the  mother-eagle's  eye 

When  her  bruised  eaglet  breathes : 
"  You  're  wounded ! "     "  Nay,"  the  soldier's  pride 

Touched  to  the  quick,  he  said  ; 
"  I  'ni  killed.  Sire  ! "     And,  his  chief  beside, 

Smiling,  the  boy  fell  dead. 

ROBERT  BROWNING. 


HYMNE  DES  MAESEILLA1S. 

ALLONS,  enfans  de  la  patrie, 

Le  jour  de  gloire  est  arrive. 

Centre  nous  de  la  tyrannic 

L'etendard  sanglant  est  lev<$,   • 

L'etendard  sanglant  est  leve. 

Entendez-vous  dans  les  campagnes 

Mugir  ces  f eroces  soldats  ? 

Us  viennent  jusque  dans  vos  bras 

figorger  vos  fils,  vos  compagnes. 
Aux  armes,  citoyens !  formez  vos  bataillons : 
Marchez  !  marchez !  —  qu'un  sang  impur  abreuve  nos  sillons. 

Que  veut  cette  horde  d'esclaves, 
De  traitres,  de  rois  conjures  ? 
Pour  qui  ces  ignobles  entraves, 
Ces  fers,  des  longtemps  prepares  ? 


HYMNE  DES  MARSEILLAIS.  275 

Franq_ais  —  pour  nous,  ah,  quel  outrage  ! 
Quel  transports  il  doit  exciter ! 
C'est  nous  qu'on  ose  menacer 
De  rendre  a  1'antique  esclavage. 
Aux  armes,  &c. 

Quoi !  des  cohortes  etrangeres 
Feraient  la  loi  dans  nos  foyers  ? 
Quoi !  ces  phalanges  mercenaires 
Terrasseraient  nos  fiers  guerriers, 
Grand  Dieu !  par  des  mains  enchainees, 
Nos  fronts  sous  le  joug  se  ploieraient, 
De  vils  despotes  deviendraient, 
Les  maitres  de  nos  destinees. 
Aux  armes,  &c. 

Tremblez,  tyrans  !  et  vous,  perfides. 
L'opprobre  de  tous  les  partis  ; 
Tremblez  !  vos  projets  parricides 
Vont  enfin  recevoir  leur  prix. 
Tout  est  soldat  pour  vous  combattre ; 
S'ils  tombent,  nos  jeunes  heros, 
La  France  en  produit  de  nouveaux 
Contre  vous  tous  prets  a  se  battre. 
Aux  armes,  &c. 

Franqais,  en  guerriers  magnamines, 
Portez  ou  retenez  vos  coups  ; 
fipargnez  ces  tristes  victiines 
A  regret  s'armant  centre  nous  ; 
Mais  le  despote  sanguinaire, 
Mais  les  complices  de  Bouille  — 
Tous  ces  tigres  qui,  sans  pitie, 
Dechirent  le  sein  de  leur  mere  ! 
Aux  armes,  &c. 


276  MOURIR  POUR  LA   PA  TRIE. 

Amour  sacre  de  la  patrie, 

Conduis,  soutiens  nos  bras  vengeurs ! 

Liberte,  Liberte  cherie, 

Combats  avec  tes  defenseurs  ! 

Sous  nos  drapeaux  que  la  victoire 

Accoure  a  tes  males  accens ; 

Que  tes  ennemis  expirans 

Voient  ton  triomphe  et  notre  gloire  ! 
Aux  armes,  citoyens !  formez  vos  bataillons  : 
Marchez  !  marchez  !  —  qu'un  sang  impur  abreuve  nos  sillons. 

ROUGET  DE  LISLE. 
Sung  by  W.  M.  H. 


MOURIE  POUR  LA   PATRIE. 

PAR  la  voix  du  canon  d'alarme, 

La  France  appelle  ses  enfants  ; 
Allons,  dit  le  soldat,  aux  armes  ; 

C'est  ma  mere,  je  la  defends. 
C'est  le  sort  le  plus  beau, 

Le  plus  digne  d'envie, 
C'est  le  sort  le  plus  beau, 

Le  plus  digne  d'envie. 

Nos  amis  qui  loin^  des  batailles 
Succombent  dans  1'obscurite'  ; 
du  moins  nos  funerailles, 


A  la  France  sa  liberte, 
Mourir  pour  la  patrie. 
C'est  le  sort  le  plus  beau, 
Le  plus  digne  d'envie, 
C'est  le  sort  le  plus  beau, 
Le  plus  digne  d'envie. 

ALEXANDRE  DUMAS. 
Sung  by  W.  M.  H. 


RULE,  BRITANNIA.  277 


EULE,   BEITANNIA. 

WHEN  Britain  first,  at  Heaven's  command, 
'  Arose  from  out  the  azure  main, 
This  was  the  charter  of  the  land, 

And  guardian  angels  sung  this  strain : 

Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves ; 

Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 

The  nations  not  so  blest  as  thee 

Must  in  their  turns  to  tyrants  fall ; 
While  thou  shalt  flourish,  great  and  free, 
The  dread  and  envy  of  them  all : 
Eule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves ; 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 

Still  more  majestic  shalt  thou  rise, 

More  dreadful  from  each  foreign  stroke  : 
As  the  loud  blast  that  tears  the  skies 
Serves  but  to  root  thy  native  oak. 
Eule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves ; 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves, 

Thee  haughty  tyrants  ne'er  shall  tame : 
All  their  attempts  to  bend  thee  down 
Will  but  arouse  thy  generous  flame, 
But  work  their  woe  and  thy  renown. 
Eule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves  ; 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 

To  thee  belongs  the  rural  reign  ; 

Thy  cities  shall  with  commerce  shine ; 


278  BALAKLAVA. 

All  thine  shall  be  the  subject  main, 
And  every  shore  it  circles,  thine. 
Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves ; 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 

The  Muses,  still  with  Freedom  found, 

Shall  to  thy  happy  coast  repair ; 
Blest  isle !  with  matchless  beauty  crowned, 
And  manly  hearts  to  guard  the  fair. 
Rule,  Britannia,  rule  the  waves  ; 
Britons  never  will  be  slaves. 

JAMES  THOMSON. 


BALAKLAVA. 

THEY  gave  the  fatal  order,  —  Charge  ! 
And  so  the  Light  Brigade  went  down, 
Where  bristling  brows  of  cannon  crown 
The  front  of  either  marge. 

Traced  all  in  fire  we  saw  our  way, 
And  the  black  goal  of  death  beyond,  — 
It  was  no  moment  to  despond, 
To  question,  or  to  pray. 

Firm  in  the  saddle,  stout  of  heart, 
With  plume  and  sabre  waving  high, 
With  gathering  stride  and  onward  cry, 
The  Band  was  swift  to  start. 

They  took  the  field  with  solemn  eye  ; 
However  wild  the  deed  they  knew, 
However  who  so  bade  should  rue, 
Their  business  was,  to  die. 


BALAKLAVA.  279 

'T  was  the  old  gallant  English  blood ; 
And  many  a  shadowy  ancestor, 
Guarding  his  sculptured  arms  afar, 
That  day  in  memory  stood. 

At  serried  gallop  on  they  press, 
Swerveless  as  pencilled  lines  of  light ; 
And  where  a  steed  turns  back  in  fright, 
That  steed  is  riderless. 

They  charge  in  high,  immortal  ire  ; 
The  war-cloud  swallowed  them,  the  young, 
The  brave,  —  a  handful  widely  flung, 
But  of  heroic  fire. 

They  fell,  unconquered,  nor  in  vain,  — 
No,  by  the  sacrificial  cost 
Of  Faith  and  Courage,  never  lost, 
Theirs  doth  the  day  remain. 

Reft  heart  of  love,  contain  thy  wound  ! 
Flash,  eyes,  though  lips  press  close  and  pale ! 
Still,  mourners  I  let  us  hear  no  wail 
Above  the  trumpet's  sound. 

Nor  wait  the  sire  to  weep  the  son 
That  bore  his  fortune  and  his  pride ; 
Nor  shall  the  mother's  wish  divide 
From  these,  her  cherished  one. 

But  tearful  England  holds  her  breath, 
Listening,  uncomforted,  their  fame  • 

Who,  in  the  greatness  of  her  name, 

Rode  glorious  unto  death. 

MRS.  HOWE. 

I  have  always  considered  this  much  better  than  TENNYSON'S  "  Balaklava." 


280  CHARGE   OF  THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE. 


THE   CHAEGE   OF  THE   LIGHT   BRIGADE 
AT   BALAKLAVA. 

HALF  a  league,  half  a  league, 
Half  a  league  onward, 
All  in  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 
"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  ! 
"  Charge  for  the  guns  ! "  he  said  : 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

"  Forward,  the  Light  Brigade  !  " 
Was  there  a  man  dismayed  ? 
Not  though  the  soldier  knew 

Some  one  had  blundered  : 
Theirs  not  to  make  reply, 
Theirs  not  to  reason  why, 
Theirs  but  to  do  and  die : 
Into  the  valley  of  Death 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  in  front  of  them, 

Volleyed  and  thundered ; 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
Boldly  they  rode  and  well ; 
Into  the  jaws  of  Death, 
Into  the  mouth  of  Hell, 

Rode  the  six  hundred. 


CHARGE   OF   THE  LIGHT  BRIGADE.  281 

Flashed  all  their  sabres  bare, 
Flashed  as  they  turned  hi  air, 
Sabring  the  gunners  there, 
Charging  an  army,  while 

All  the  world  wondered  : 
Plunged  in  the  battery-smoke, 
Right  through  the  line  they  broke ; 
Cossack  and  Russian 
Reeled  from  the  sabre-stroke, 

Shattered  and  sundered. 
Then  they  rode  back,  but  not  — 

Not  the  six  hundred. 

Cannon  to  right  of  them, 
Cannon  to  left  of  them, 
Cannon  behind  them, 

Volleyed  and  thundered ; 
Stormed  at  with  shot  and  shell, 
While  horse  and  hero  fell, 
They  that  had  fought  so  well 
Came  through  the  jaws  of  Death 
Back  from  the  mouth  of  Hell,  — - 
All  that  was  left  of  them, 

Left  of  six  hundred. 

When  can  their  glory  fade  ? 
Oh  the  wild  charge  they  made  ! 

All  the  world  wondered. 
Honor  the  charge  they  made  ! 
Honor  the  Light  Brigade, 
Noble  six  hundred  ! 

TENNYSON. 
Inserted  here  to  show  its  inferiority  to  Mrs.  HOWE'S  poem  on  the  same  subject. 


282  THE    WATCH   ON  THE  RHINE. 


THE  WATCH   ON   THE  EHINE. 

A  ROAR  like  thunder  strikes  the  ear 

Like  clang  of  arms  or  breakers  near. 

Kush  forward  for  the  German  Ehine  ! 

Who  shields  thee,  dear  beloved  Ehine  ? 
Dear  Fatherland,  thou  need'st  not  fear, 
Thy  Ehineland  watch  stands  firmly  here. 

A  hundred  thousand  hearts  beat  high, 
The  flash  darts  forth  from  every  eye  ; 
For  Teutons  brave,  inured  by  toil, 
Protect  their  country's  holy  soil. 
Dear  Fatherland,  &c. 

When  heavenward  ascends  the  eye, 
Our  heroes'  ghosts  look  down  from  high  ; 
We  swear  to  guard  our  dear  bequest, 
And  shield  it  with  the  German  breast. 
Dear  Fatherland,  &c. 

As  long  as  German  blood  still  glows, 
The  German  sword  strikes  mighty  blows, 
And  German  marksmen  take  their  stand, 
No  foe  shall  tread  our  native  land. 
Dear  Fatherland,  &c. 

We  take  the  pledge.     The  stream  runs  high, 

Our  banners  proud  are  wafting  high. 

On  for  the  Ehine,  the  German  Ehine ! 

We  all  die  for  our  native  Ehine. 

Hence,  Fatherland,  be  of  good  cheer, 
Thy  Ehineland  watch  stands  firmly  here. 

MAX    SCHUECKENBURGER. 


HAIL,    COLUMBIA!  283 


HAIL,   COLUMBIA! 

HAIL,  Columbia  !  happy  land ! 
Hail,  ye  heroes  !  heaven-born  band, 
Who  fought  and  bled  in  Freedom's  cause, 
Who  fought  and  bled  in  Freedom's  cause, 
And  when  the  storm  of  war  was  gone, 
Enjoyed  the  peace  your  valor  won. 
Let  independence  be  our  boast, 
Ever  mindful  what  it  cost ; 
Ever  grateful  for  the  prize, 
Let  its  altar  reach  the  skies. 
Firm,  united,  let  us  be, 
•  Kallying  round  our  Liberty ; 
As  a  band  of  brothers  joined, 
Peace  and  safety  we  shall  find. 

Immortal  Patriots  !  rise  once  more ; 
Defend  your  rights,  defend  your  shora 
Let  no  rude  foe,  with  impious  hand, 
Let  no  rude  foe,  with  impious  hand, 
Invade  the  shrine  where  sacred  lies 
Of  toil  and  blood  the  well-earned  prize. 
While  offering  peace  sincere  and  just, 
In  heaven  we  place  a  manly  trust, 
That  truth  and  justice  will  prevail, 
And  every  scheme  of  bondage  fail. 
Firm,  united,  &c. 

Sound,  sound  the  trump  of  Fame  ! 

Let  WASHINGTON'S  great  name 

Eing  through  the  world  with  loud  applause, 

Eing  through  the  world  with  loud  applause ; 


284  ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA. 

Let  every  clime  to  Freedom  dear, 
Listen  with  a  joyful  ear. 
With  equal  skill  and  godlike  power, 
He  governs  in  the  fearful  hour 
Of  horrid  war,  or  guides  with  ease 
The  happier  times  of  honest  peace. 
Firm,  united,  &c. 

Behold  the  chief  who  now  commands, 
Once  more  to  serve  his  country  stands,  — 
The  rock  on  which  the  storm  will  beat, 
The  rock  on  which  the  storm  will  beat ; 
But,  armed  in  virtue  firm  and  true, 
His  hopes  are  fixed  on  heaven  and  you. 
When  hope  was  sinking  in  dismay, 
When  glooms  obscured  Columbia's  day, 
His  steady  mind,  from  changes  free, 
Resolved  on  death  or  liberty.   . 

Firm,  united,  &c. 

JUDGE  JOSEPH  HOPKINSON. 


ANTONY  -AND   CLEOPATEA. 

"I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying." 

SHAKSPEARE. 

I  AM  dying,  Egypt,  dying; 

Ebbs  the  crimson  life-tide  fast, 
And  the  dark  Plutonian  shadows 

Gather  on  the  evening  blast. 
Let  thine  arms,  0  queen,  enfold  me, 

Hush  thy  sobs  and  bow  thine  ear ; 
Listen  to  the  great  heart-secrets 

Thou,  and  thou  alone,  must  hear. 


ANTONY  AND   CLEOPATRA.  285 

Though  my  scarred  and  veteran  legions 

Bear  their  eagles  high  no  more, 
And  my  wrecked  and  scattered  galleys 

Strew  dark  Actium's  fatal  shore, 
Though  no  glittering  guards  surround  me, 

Prompt  to  do  their  master's  will, 
I  must  perish  like  a  Eoman,  — 

Die  the  great  Triumvir  still. 

Let  not  Caesar's  servile  minions 

Mock  the  lion  thus  laid  low ; 
'T  was  no  foeman's  arm  that  felled  him, 

'T  was  his  own  that  struck  the  blow. 
His  who,  pillowed  on  thy  bosom, 

Turned  aside  from  glory's  ray,  — 
His  who,  drunk  with  thy  caresses, 

Madly  threw  a  world  away. 

Should  the  base  plebeian  rabble 

Dare  assail  my  name  at  Rome, 
Where  my  noble  spouse,  Octavia, 

Weeps  within  her  widowed  home, 
Seek  her ;  say  the  gods  bear  witness  — 

Altars,  augurs,  circling  wings  — 
That  her  blood,  with  mine  commingled, 

Yet  shall  mount  the  throne  of  kings. 

As  for  thee,  star-eyed  Egyptian  ! 

Glorious  sorceress  of  the  Nile  ! 
Light  the  path  to  Stygian  horrors 

With  the  splendors  of  thy  smile. 
Give  the  Caesar  crowns  and  arches, 

Let  his  brow  the  laurel  twine ; 
I  can  scorn  the  Senate's  triumphs, 

Triumphing  in  love  like  thine. 


286  LEXINGTON. 

I  am  dying,  Egypt,  dying  ; 

Hark  !  the  insulting  foeman's  cry  ; 
They  are  coming  —  quick,  my  falchion  ! 

Let  me  front  them  ere  I  die. 
Ah  !  no  more  amid  the  battle 

Shall  my  heart  exulting  swell ; 
Isis  and  Osiris,  guard  thee ! 

Cleopatra,  Rome  —  farewell ! 

WILLIAM  II.  LYTLE. 

The  author  of  this  poem  was  a  general  in  the  Union  army  from  OHIO,  and  was 
killed  at  CHICKAMAUGA. 


LEXINGTON. 

SLOWLY  the  mist  o'er  the  meadow  was  creeping, 
Bright  on  the  dewy  buds  glistened  the  sun, 
When  from  his  couch,  while  his  children  were  sleeping, 
Rose  the  bold  rebel  and  shouldered  his  gun. 

Waving  her  golden  veil 

Over  the  silent  dale, 
Blithe  looked  the  morning  on  cottage  and  spire ; 

Hushed  was  his  parting  sigh, 

While  from  his  noble  eye 
Flashed  the  last  sparkle  of  liberty's  fire. 

Gayly  the  plume  of  the  horseman  was  dancing, 
Never  to  shadow  his  cold  brow  again  ; 
Proudly  at  morning  the  war-steed  was  prancing, 
Reeking  and  panting  he  droops  on  the  rein. 

Pale  is  the  lip  of  scorn, 

Voiceless  the  trumpet  horn, 
Torn  is  the  silken-fringed  red  cross  on  high ; 


THE   STAR-SPANGLED   BANNER.  287 

Many  a  belted  breast 
Low  on  the  turf  shall  rest, 
Ere  the  dark  hunters  the  herd  have  passed  by. 


Green  be  the  graves  where  her  martyrs  are  lying ! 
Shroudless  and  tombless  they  sunk  to  their  rest,  — 
While  o'er  their  ashes  the  starry  fold  flying 
Wraps  the  proud  eagle  they  roused  from  his  nest. 

Borne  on  her  Northern  pine, 

Long  o'er  the  foaming  brine 
Spread  her  broad  banner  to  storm  and  to  sun ; 

Heaven  keep  her  ever  free, 

Wide  as  o'er  land  and  sea 
Floats  the  fair  emblem  her  heroes  have  won ! 

HOLMES. 


THE   STAR-SPANGLED   BANNER. 

OH,  say,  can  you  see  by  the  dawn's  early  light 

What  so  proudly  we  hailed  at  the  twilight's  last  gleaming, — 
Whose  broad  stripes  and  bright  stars  through  the  perilous  fight, 

O'er  the  ramparts  we  watched,  were  so  gallantly  streaming  ? 
And  the  rocket's  red  glare,  the  bombs  bursting  in  air, 

Gave  proof  through  the  night  that  our  flag  was  still  there : 
Oh.  say,  does  that  star-spangled  banner  yet  wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave  ? 

On  that  shore,  dimly  seen  through  the  mists  of  the  deep, 
Where  the  foe's  haughty  host  in  dread  silence  reposes, 

What  is  that  which  the  breeze,  o'er  the  towering  steep, 
As  it  fitfully  blows,  now  conceals,  now  discloses  ? 


288  JOHN  BROWN  OF  OSAWATOMIE. 

Now  it  catches  the  gleam  of  the  morning's  first  beam, 
In  full  glory  reflected,  now  shines  on  the  stream : 

'T  is  the  star-spangled  banner  ;  oh,  long  may  it  wave 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave  ! 

And  where  are  the  foes  who  so  vauntingly  swore 

That  the  havoc  of  war  and  the  battle's  confusion 
A  home  and  a  country  should  leave  us,  no  more  ? 

Their  blood  has  washed  out  their  foul  footsteps'  pollution. 
No  refuge  could  save  the  hireling  and  slave 

From  the  terror  of  flight  or  the  gloom  of  the  grave ; 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  doth  wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

Oh,  thus  be  it  ever,  when  freemen  shall  stand 

Between  their  loved  homes  and  the  war's  desolation. 
Blest  with  victory  and  peace,  may  the  heaven-rescued  land 

Praise  the  Power  that  hath  made  and  preserved  us  a  nation 
Then  conquer  we  must,  when  our  cause  it  is  just ; 

And  this  be  our  motto,  "  In  God  is  our  trust: " 
And  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  shall  wave 

O'er  the  land  of  the  free  and  the  home  of  the  brave. 

FRANCIS  SCOTT  KEY. 


JOHN   BROWN   OF   OSAWATOMIE. 

JOHN  BROWX  in  Kansas  settled,  like  a  steadfast  Yankee  farmer, 

Brave  and  godly,  with  four  sons,  —  all  stalwart  men  of  might. 

There  he  spoke  aloud  for  Freedom,  and  the  Border  strife  grew 

warmer, 

Till  the  Rangers  fired  his  dwelling,  in  his  absence,  in  the  night ; 
And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Came  homeward  in  the  morning,  to  find  his  house  burned  down. 


JOHN  BROWN  OF  OSAWATOMIE.  289 

Then  he  grasped  his  trusty  rifle,  and  boldly  fought  for  freedom ; 

Smote  from  border  unto  border  the  fierce,  invading  band ; 
And  he  and  his  brave  boys  vowed  —  so  might  Heaven  help  and 

speed  'em !  — 

They  would  save  those  grand  old  prairies  from  the  curse  that 
blights  the  land; 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Said,  "  Boys,  the  Lord  will  aid  us ! "  and  he  shoved  his  ramrod 
down. 

And  the  Lord  did  aid  these  men,  and  they  labored  day  and  even, 
Saving  Kansas  from  its  peril,  and  their  very  lives    seemed 

charmed ; 

Till  the  ruffians  killed  one  son,  in  the  blessed  light  of  heaven,  — 
In   cold  blood   the  fellows    slew   him,   as  he  journeyed  all 
unarmed. 

Then  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Shed   not  a   tear,  but  shut  his   teeth,  and  frowned  a  terrible 
frown  ! 

Then   they  seized  another  brave  boy,  —  not  amid  the  heat  of 

battle, 
But  in  peace,  behind  his  ploughshare,  —  and  they  loaded  him 

with  chains, 
And  with  pikes,  before  their  horses,  even  as  they  goad  their 

cattle, 

Drove  him  cruelly,  for  their  sport,  and  at  last  blew  out  his 
brains ; 

Then  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Eaised  his  right  hand  up  to  Heaven,  calling  Heaven's  vengeance 
down. 

19 


290  JOHN  BROWN  OF  OSAWATOMIE. 

And  he  swore  a  fearful  oath,  by  the  name  of  the  Almighty, 
He  would  hunt  this  ravening  evil  that  had  scathed  and  torn 

him  so ;  — 
He  would  seize  it  by  the  vitals  ;  he  would  crush  it  day  and 

night;  he 

Would  so  pursue  its  footsteps,  so  return  it  blow  for  blow, 
That  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
Should  be  a  name  to  swear  by,  in  backwoods  or  in  town ! 

Took  the  guarded  armory  building,  and  the  muskets,  and  the 

cannon ; 

Captured  all  the  county  majors  and  the  colonels,  one  by  one ; 
Scared  to  death  each  gallant  scion  of  Virginia  they  ran  on, 
And  before  the  noon  of  Monday,  I  say,  the  deed  was  done. 
Mad  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
With  his  eighteen  other  crazy  men,  went  in  and  took  the  town. 

Very  little  noise  and  bluster,  little  smell  of  powder,  made  he ; 

It  was  all  done  in  the  midnight,  like  the  emperor's  coup-d'etat ; 
"  Cut  the  wires  !  stop  the  rail-cars  !  hold  the  streets  and  bridges  ! " 

said  he, 

Then  declared  the  new  Bepublic,  with  himself  for  guiding 
star,  — 

This  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown ; 
And  the  bold  two  thousand  citizens  ran  off  and  left  the  town. 

Tallyho  !  the  old  Virginia  gentry  gather  to  the  baying ! 

In  they  rushed  and  killed  the  game,  shooting  lustily  away; 
And  whene'er  they  slew  a  rebel,  those  who  came  too  late  for 
slaying, 

Not  to  lose  a  share  of  glory,  fixed  their  bullets  in  his  clay ; 


JOHN  BROWN  OF  OSAWATOMIE.  291 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 

Saw  his  sons  fall  dead  beside  him,  and  between  them  laid  him 
down. 

How  the  conquerors  wore  their  laurels ;  how  they  hastened  on 

the  trial ; 
How  Old  Brown  was  placed,  half  dying,  on  the  Charlestown 

court-house  floor ; 

How  he  spoke  his  grand  oration,  in  the  scorn  of  all  denial ; 
What  the  brave  old  madman  told  them,  —  these  are  known 
the  country  o'er, 

"  Hang  Old  Brown," 
Osawatomie  Brown," 

Said  the  judge,  "  and  all  such  rebels  ! "  with  his  most  judicial 
frown. 

But,  Virginians,  don't  do  it !  for  I  tell  you  that  the  flagon, 
Filled  with  blood  of  Old  Brown's  offspring,  was  first  poured 

by  Southern  hands ; 
And  each  drop  from  Old  Brown's  life-veins,  like  the  red  gore  of 

the  dragon, 

May  spring  up  a  vengeful  fury,  hissing  through  your  slave- 
worn  lands ! 

And  Old  Brown, 
Osawatomie  Brown, 
May  trouble  you  more  than  ever,  when  you  Ve  nailed  his  coffin 

down ! 

E.  C.  STEUMAN. 

This  poem  recalls  the  night  which  JOHN  BROWN  spent  at  my  house  a  few  months 
before  the  fatal  enterprise  at  Harper's  Ferry.  He  passed  several  hours  recounting, 
very  modestly,  under  cross-examination,  his  battles  of  Osawatomie  and  Black 
Jack  ;  and  he  left  us  with  the  same  impression  of  heroism  which  his  later  history 
left  with  the  world.  On  the  day  of  his  death  Mrs.  FOLLEN  and  Miss  SUSAN 
CABOT  took  refuge  with  us  to  count  his  last  hours,  watching  the  hands  of  the 
clock  as  the  moment  of  his  execution  approached,  with  strained  eyes  and  bated 
breath.  None  of  us  who  were  there  will  ever  forget  either  him,  or  them  as  they 
appeared  on  that  day. 


292  ON   THE   SHORES   OF  TENNESSEE. 


ON  THE  SHOEES  OF  TENNESSEE. 

"  MOVE  my  arm-chair,  faithful  Pompey, 

In  the  sunshine  bright  and  strong, 
For  this  world  is  fading,  Pompey, 

Massa  won't  be  with  you  long ; 
And  I  fain  would  hear  the  south-wind 

Bring  the  sound  once  more  to  me, 
Of  the  wavelets  softly  breaking 

On  the  shores  of  Tennessee. 

"  Mournful  though  the  ripples  murmur, 

As  they  still  the  story  tell, 
How  no  vessels  float  the  banner 

That  I  Ve  loved  so  long  and  well, 
I  shall  listen  to  their  music, 

Dreaming  that  again  I  see 
Stars  and  stripes  on  sloop  and  shallop, 

Sailing  up  the  Tennessee." 

Still  the  south-wind  fondly  lingers 

'Mid  the  veteran's  silver  hair ; 
Still  the  bondman,  close  beside  him, 

Stands  behind  the  old  arm-chair. 
With  his  dark-hued  hand  uplifted, 

Shading  eyes,  he  bends  to  see 
Where  the  woodland,  boldly  jutting, 

Turns  aside  the  Tennessee. 

Thus  he  watches  cloud-born  shadows 
Glide  from  tree  to  mountain  crest, 

Softly  creeping,  aye  and  ever, 
To  the  river's  yielding  breast. 


TOGETHER.  293 

Ha,  above  the  foliage  yonder 

Something  nutters  wild  and  free ! 
"  Massa,  massa  !  hallelujah  ! 

The  flag 's  come  back  to  Tennessee ! " 

"  Pompey,  hold  me  on  your  shoulder, 

Help  me  stand  on  foot  once  more, 
That  I  may  salute  the  colors 

As  they  pass  before  my  door. 
Here's  the  paper  signed  that  frees  you, 

Give  a  freeman's  shout  with  me  ! 
God  and  Union  be  our  watchword 

Evermore  in  Tennessee  ! " 

Then  the  trembling  voice  grew  fainter, 

And  the  limbs  refused  to  stand; 
One  prayer  to  Jesus,  and  the  soldier 

Glided  to  that  better  land. 
When  the  flag  went  down  the  river 

Man  and  master  both  were  free, 
While  the  ringdove's  note  was  mingled 

With  the  rippling  Tennessee. 

ETHEL  LYNN  BEERS. 
My  favorite  among  war-songs,  as  sung  by  M . 


TOGETHER 

O  FAIR-HAIRED  Northern  hero, 
With  thy  guard  of  dusky  hue, 

Up  from  the  field  of  battle 
Kise  to  the  last  review ! 

Sweep  downward,  holy  angels, 
In  legions  dazzling  bright, 


294  THE  PICKET-GUARD. 

And  bear  these  souls  together 
Before  Christ's  throne  of  light. 

The  Master,  who  remembers 

The  cross,  the  thorns,  the  spear, 

Smiles  on  the  risen  freedmen, 
As  their  ransomed  souls  appear. 

And  thou,  young  generous  spirit, 

What  will  thy  welcome  be  ? 
"  Thou  hast  aided  the  down-trodden, 

Thou  hast  done  it  unto  me ! " 

ANONYMOUS. 
Refers  to  Colonel  ROBERT  G.  SHAW. 


THE   PICKET-GUAKD. 

ALL  quiet  along  the  Potomac,  they  say, 

Except  now  and  then  a  stray  picket 
Is  shot,  as  he  walks  on  his  beat  to  and  fro, 

By  a  rifleman  hid  in  the  thicket. 
'Tis  nothing  :  a  private  or  two,  now  and  then, 

Will  not  count  in  the  news  of  the  battle ; 
Not  an  officer  lost,  —  only  one  of  the  men, 

Moaning  out,  all  alone,  the  death-rattle. 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 

Where  the  soldiers  lie  peacefully  dreaming ; 
Their  tents  in  the  rays  of  the  clear  autumn  moon, 

Or  the  light  of  the  watch-fires,  are  gleaming. 
A  tremulous  sigh,  as  the  gentle  night-wind 

Through  the  forest  leaves  softly  is  creeping ; 
While  stars  up  above,  with  their  glittering  eyes, 

Keep  guard,  —  for  the  army  is  sleeping. 


THE  PICKET-GUARD.  295 

There's  only  the  sound  of  the  lone  sentry's  tread, 

As  he  tramps  from  the  rock  to  the  fountain, 
And  thinks  of  the  two  in  the  lone  trundle-bed, 

Far  away  in  the  cot  on  the  mountain. 
His  musket  falls  slack ;  his  face,  dark  and  grim, 

Grows  gentle  with  memories  tender, 
As  he  mutters  a  prayer  for  the  children  asleep, 

For  their  mother,  —  may  Heaven  defend  her ! 

The  moon  seems  to  shine  just  as  brightly  as  then, 

That  night  when  the  love  yet  unspoken 
Leaped  up  to  his  lips,  when  low-murmured  vows 

Were  pledged  to  be  ever  unbroken  ; 
Then  drawing  his  sleeve  roughly  over  his  eyes, 

He  dashes  off  tears  that  are  welling, 
And  gathers  his  gun  closer  up  to  its  place, 

As  if  to  keep  down  the  heart-swelling. 

He  passes  the  fountain,  the  blasted  pine-tree,  — 

The  footstep  is  lagging  and  weary ; 
Yet  onward  he  goes,  through  the  broad  belt  of  light, 

Toward  the  shades  of  the  forest  so  dreary. 
Hark !  was  it  the  night-wind  that  rustled  the  leaves  ? 

Was  it  moonlight  so  wondrously  flashing? 
It  looked  like  a  rifle :  "  Ah  !  Mary,  good-by  ! " 

And  the  life-blood  is  ebbing  and  plashing. 

All  quiet  along  the  Potomac  to-night, 

No  sound  save  the  rush  of  the  river ; 
While  soft  falls  the  dew  on  the  face  of  the  dead,  — 

The  picket 's  off  duty  forever. 

ETHEL  LYNN  BEERS. 


296  THE  FLAG. 


THE   FLAG. 

THERE  's  a  flag  hangs  over  my  threshold,  whose  folds  are  more 

dear  to  me 

Than  the  blood  that  thrills  in  my  bosom  its  earnest  of  liberty  ; 
And  dear  are  the  stars  it  harbors  in  its  sunny  field  of  blue 
As  the  hope  of  a  further  heaven  that  lights  all  our  dim  lives 

through. 

But  now  should  my  guests  be  merry,  the  house  is  in  holiday 

guise, 
Looking  out,  through  its  burnished  windows  like  a  score   of 

welcoming  eyes. 

Come  hither,  my  brothers,  who  wander  in  saintliness  and  in  sin  ! 
Come  hither,  ye  pilgrims  of  Nature  !  my  heart  doth  invite  you  in. 

My  wine  is  not  of  the  choicest,  yet  bears  it  an  honest  brand ; 
And  the  bread  that  I  bid  you  lighten  I  break  with  no  sparing 

hand; 
But  pause,  —  ere  you  pass  to  taste  it,  one  act  must  accomplished 

be: 
Salute  the  flag  in  its  virtue,  before  ye  sit  down  with  me. 

The  flag  of  our  stately  battles,  not  struggles  of  wrath  and  greed : 
Its  stripes  were  a  holy  lesson,  its  spangles  a  deathless  creed ; 
'T  was  red  with  the  blood  of  freemen,  and  white  with  the  fear 

of  the  foe, 
And  the   stars  that  fight  in  their  courses  'gainst  tyrants  its 

symbols  know. 

Come  hither,  thou  son  of  my  mother !  we  were  reared  in  the 

self-same  arms ; 
Thou  hast  many  a  pleasant  gesture,  thy  mind  hath  its  gifts  and 

charms, 


THE  FLAG.  297 

But  my  heart  is  as  stern  to  question  as  mine  eyes  are  of  sorrows 

full: 
Salute  the  flag  in  its  virtue,  or  pass  on  where  others  rule.     , 

Thou  lord  of  a.  thousand  acres,  with  heaps  of  uncounted  gold, 
The  steeds  of  thy  stall  are  haughty,  thy  lackeys  cunning  and  bold ; 
I  envy  no  jot  of  thy  splendor,  I  rail  at  thy  follies  none : 
Salute  the  flag  in  its  virtue,  or  leave  my  poor  house  alone. 

Fair  lady  with  silken  trappings,  high  waving  thy  stainless  plume, 
We  welcome  thee  to  our  numbers,  a  flower  of  costliest  bloom : 
Let  a  hundred  maids  live  widowed  to  furnish  thy  bridal  bed ; 
But  pause  where  the  flag  doth  question,  and  bend  thy  trium- 
phant head. 

Take  down  now  your  flaunting  banner,  for  a.  scout  comes  breath- 
less and  pale, 

With  the  terror  of  death  upon  him ;  of  failure  is  all  his  tale : 

"  They  have  fled  while  the  flag  waved  o'er  them !  they  have 
turned  to  the  foe  their  back ! 

They  are  scattered,  pursued,  and  slaughtered !  the  fields  are  all 
rout  and  wrack  ! " 

Pass  hence,  then,  the  friends  I  gathered,  a  goodly  company  ! 
All  ye  that  have  manhood  in  you,  go,  perish  for  Liberty  ! 
But  I  and  the  babes  God  gave  me  will  wait  with  uplifted  hearts, 
With  the  firm  smile  ready  to  kindle,  and  the  will  to  perform  our 
parts. 

When  the  last  true  heart  lies  bloodless,  when  the  fierce  and  the 

false  have  won, 

1 11  press  in  turn  to  my  bosom  each  daughter  and  either  son ; 
Bid  them  loose  the  flag  from  its  bearings,  and  we  '11  lay  us  down 

to  rest 
With  the  glory  of  home  about  us,  and  its  freedom  locked  in  our 

breast. 

MBS.  HOWE. 


298  BATTLE-HYMN  OF   THE  REPUBLIC. 


BATTLE-HYMN   OF  THE   REPUBLIC. 

MINE  eyes  have  seen  the  glory  of  the  coming  of  the  Lord ; 

He  is  trampling  out  the  vintage  where  the  grapes  of  wrath  are 

stored. 

He  hath  loosed  the  fateful  lightning  of  his  terrible  swift  sword ; 
His  truth  is  marching  on. 

I  have  seen  him  in  the  watch-fires  of  a  hundred  circling  camps  ; 
They  have  builded  him  an  altar  in  the  evening  dews  and  damps. 
I  have  read  his  righteous  sentence  by  the  dim  and  flaring  lamps  : 
His  day  is  marching  on. 

I  have  read  a  fiery  gospel  writ  in  burnished  rows  of  steel : 

"  As  ye  deal  with  my  contemners,  so  with  you  my  grace  shall 

deal: 

Let  the  hero,,  born  of  woman,  crush  the  serpent  with  his  heel, 
Since  God  is  marching  on." 

He  has  sounded  forth  the  trumpet  that  shall  never  call  retreat ; 
He  is  sifting  out  the  hearts  of  men  before  his  judgment  seat : 
Oh,  be  swift,  my  soul,  to  answer  him,  —  be  jubilant,  my  feet ! 
Our  God  is  marching  on. 

i 
In  the  beauty  of  the  lilies  Christ  was  born  across  the  sea, 

With  a  glory  in  his  bosom  that  transfigures  you  and  me : 
As  he  died  to  make  men  holy,  let  us  die  to  make  men  free, 

While  God  is  marching  on. 

MRS.  HOWE. 

The  great  hymn  of  the  war. 


GLORY,    GLORY,  HALLELUJAH!  299 


GLOEY,   GLOEY,   HALLELUJAH! 

JOHN  BROWN'S  body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  grave, 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  grave, 
John  Brown's  body  lies  a-mouldering  in  the  grave, 
His  soul  is  marching  on. 
Glory  glory,  hallelujah ! 
Glory,  glory,  hallelujah ! 
Glory,  glory,  hallelujah ! 
His  soul  is  marching  on. 

The  stars  of  heaven  are  looking  kindly  down, 
The  stars  of  heaven  are  looking  kindly  down,     , 
The  stars  of  heaven  are  looking  kindly  down, 
On  the  grave  of  old  John  Brown. 
Glory,  glory,  hallelujah,  &c. 

He 's  gone  to  be  a  soldier  in  the  army  of  the  Lord, 

He 's  gone  to  be  a  soldier  in  the  army  of  the  Lord, 

He 's  gone  to  be  a  soldier  in  the  army  of  the  Lord, 

His  soul  is  marching  on. 

Glory,  glory,  hallelujah,  &c. 

John  Brown's  knapsack  is  strapped  upon  his  back, 
John  Brown's  knapsack  is  strapped  upon  his  back, 
John  Brown's  knapsack  is  strapped  upon  his  back, 
His  soul  is  marching  on. 
Glory,  glory,  hallelujah,  &c. 

His  pet  lamb  will  meet  him  on  the  way, 
His  pet  lamb  will  meet  him  on  the  way, 
His  pet  lamb  will  meet  him  on  the  way, 
And  they  '11  go  marching  on. 
Glory,  glory,  hallelujah,  &c. 


300  THE  AMERICAN  FLAG. 

They  will  hang  Jeff  Davis  to  a  sour  apple-tree, 
They  will  hang  Jeff  Davis  to  a  sour  apple-tree, 
They  will  hang  Jeff  Davis  to  a  sour  apple-tree, 
As  they  go  marching  on. 
Glory,  glory,  hallelujah,  &c. 

Let's  give  three  good,  rousing  cheers  for  the  Union, 
Let 's  give  three  good,  rousing  cheers  for  the  Union, 
Let 's  give  three  good,  rousing  cheers  for  the  Union, 
As  we  go  marching  on. 

Glory,  glory,  hallelujah ! 

Glory,  glory,  hallelujah ! 

Glory,  glory,  hallelujah ! 

Hip,  hip,  hip,  hip,  hurrah ! 

ANONYMOUS. 

This  is  the  John  Brown  song  used  by  the  soldiers  and  negroes.  Just  after 
the  war  I  was  on  the  St.  John's  River,  on  the  old  steamer  "Darlington,"  com- 
manded by  the  worst  of  rebels,  Captain  BUOCK.  The  night  was  dark,  and  the  fires 
of  the  boat  flashed  brightly  on  the  trees  as  we  passed.  The  negro  crew  gave  us 
in  chorus  this  song,  while  the  rebel  captain  was  grinding  his  teeth  on  the  upper 
deck.  Such  a  song  in  that  place  five  years  earlier,  before  the  war,  could  only 
have  been  had  at  the  cost  of  several  lives  ;  and  the  contrast,  together  with  the 
dusky  faces,  the  illumined  shores,  and  the  sparkling  water,  formed  a  picture  never 
to  be  effaced  from  memory. 


THE   AMERICAN  FLAG. 

WHEN  Freedom  from  her  mountain  height 

Unfurled  her  standard  to  the  air, 
She  tore  the  azure  robe  of  night, 

And  set  the  stars  of  glory  there  ; 
She  mingled  with  its  gorgeous  dyes 
The  milky  baldric  of  the  skies, 
And  striped  its  pure,  celestial  white 
With  streakings  of  the  morning  light; 


THE  AMERICAN  FLAG.  301 

Then  from  his  mansion  in  the  sun 
She  called  her  eagle-bearer  down,     . 
And  gave  into  his  mighty  hand 
The  symbol  of  her  chosen  land. 

Majestic  monarch  of  the  cloud, 

Who  rear'st  aloft  thy  regal  form, 
To  hear  the  tempest  trumpings  loud, 
And  see  the  lightning  lances  driven, 

When  strive  the  warriors  of  the  storm, 
And  rolls  the  thunder  drum  of  heaven,  — 
Child  of  the  sun,  to  thee  't  is  given 
To  guard  the  banner  of  the  free, 
To  hover  in  the  sulphur  smoke, 
To  ward  away  the  battle  stroke, 
And  bid  its  blendings  shine  afar, 
Like  rainbows  on  the  cloud  of  war, 

The  harbingers  of  victory. 

Flag  of  the  brave,  thy  folds  shall  fly, 
The  sign  of  hope  and  triumph  high, 
When  speaks  the  signal  trumpet  tone, 
And  the  long  line  comes  gleaming  on ; 
Ere  yet  the  life  blood,  warm  and  wet, 
Has  dimmed  the  glistening  bayonet, 
Each  soldier  eye  shall  brightly  turn 
To  where  thy  sky-born  glories  burn, 
And,  as  his  springing  steps  advance, 
Catch  war  and  vengeance  from  the  glance. 
And  when  the  cannon-mouthings  loud 
Heave  in  wild  wreaths  the  battle-shroud, 
And  gory  sabres  rise  and  fall, 
Like  shoots  of  flame  on  midnight's  pall, 
Then  shall  thy  meteor-glances  glow, 
And  cowering  foes  shall  sink  beneath 


302  WE  ARE   COMING,   FATHER   A  BRA 'AM. 

Each  gallant  arm  that  strikes  below 
That  lovely  messenger  of  death. 

Flag  of  the  seas !  on  ocean  wave  „    .  • 
Thy  stars  shall  glitter  o'er  the  brave ; 
When  death,  careering  on  the  gale, 
Sweeps  darkly  round  the  bellied  sail, 
And  frighted  waves  rush  wildly  back 
Before  the  broadside's  reeling  rack, 
Each  dying  wanderer  of  the  sea 
Shall  look  at  once  to  heaven  and  thee, 
And  smile  to  see  thy  splendors  fly 
In  triumph  o'er  his  closing  eye. 

Flag  of  the  free  heart's  hope  and  home, 

By  angel  hands  to  valor  given, 
Thy  stars  have  lit  the  welkin  dome, 

And  all  thy  hues  were  born  in  heaven. 
Forever  float  that  standard  sheet ! 

Where  breathes  the  foe  but  falls  before  us, 
With  Freedom's  soil  beneath  our  feet, 

And  Freedom's  banner  streaming  o'er  us  ? 

DRAKE. 


WE   AEE  COMING,   FATHEE  ABRA'AM. 

WE  are  coming,  Father  Abra'am,  three  hundred  thousand  more, 
From  Mississippi's  winding   stream  and  from  New   England's 

shore ; 
We  leave  our  ploughs  and  workshops,  our  wives  and  children 

dear, 

With  hearts  too  full  for  utterance,  with  but  a  silent  tear : 
We  dare  not  look  behind  us,  but  steadfastly  before. 


WE  ARE   COMING,   FATHER  ABRA'AM.  303 

We  are  coining,  Father  Abra'am,  three  hundred  thousand  more ! 

We  are  coming,  we  are  coming,  our  Union  to  restore ; 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abra'am,  three  hundred  thousand  more ! 

If  you  look  across  the  hill-tops  that  meet  the  Northern  sky, 
Long  moving  lines  of  rising  dust  your  vision  may  descry ; 
And  now  the  wind,  an  instant,  tears  the  cloudy  veil  aside, 
And  floats  aloft  our  spangled  flag,  in  glory  and  in  pride ; 
And  bayonets  in  the  sunlight  gleam,  and  bands  brave   music 

pour, 

We  are  coming,  Father  Abra'am,  three  hundred  thousand  more  ! 
We  are  coming,  &c. 

If  you  look  up  our  valleys,  where  the  growing  harvests  shine, 
You  may  see  our  sturdy  farmer  boys  fast  forming  into  line  ; 
And  children  at  their  mother's  knees  are  pulling  at  the  weeds, 
And  learning  how  to   reap   and   sow   against   their   country's 

needs, 

And  a  farewell  group  stands  weeping  at  every  cottage  door. 
We  are  coming,  Father  Abra'am,  three  hundred  thousand  more ! 
We  are  coming,  &c. 

You  have  called  us,  and  we  're  coming,  by  Eichmond's  bloody  tide, 
To  lay  us  down  for  freedom's  sake,  our  brothers'  bones  beside ; 
Or  from  foul  treason's  savage  group  to  wrench  the  murderous 

blade, 

And  in  the  face  of  foreign  foes  its  fragments  to  parade. 
Six  hundred  thousand  loyal  men  and  true  have  gone  before ; 
We  are  coming,  Father  Abra'am,  three  hundred  thousand  more  ! 
We  are  coming,  &c. 

ANONYMOUS,  New  York  Evening  Post. 


304  AT  PORT  ROYAL. 


AT   POET   ROYAL. 

THE  tent-lights  glimmer  on  the  land, 

The  ship-lights  on  the  sea  ; 
The  night-wind  smooths  with  drifting  sand 

Our  track  on  long  Tybee. 

At  last  our  grating  keels  outslide, 
Our  good  boats  forward  swing  ; 

And  while  we  ride  the  land-locked  tide, 
Our  negroes  row  and  sing. 

For  dear  the  bondman  holds  his  gifts 

Of  music  and  of  song,  — 
The  gold  that  kindly  nature  sifts 

Among  his  sands  of  wrong ; 

The  power  to  make  his  toiling  days 
And  poor  home-comforts  please  ; 

The  quaint  relief  of  mirth  that  plays 
With  sorrow's  minor  keys. 

Another  glow  than  sunset's  fire 

Has  filled  the  west  with  light, 
Where  field  and  garner,  barn  and  byre, 

Are  blazing  through  the  night. 

The  land  is  wild  with  fear  and  hate, 

The  rout  runs  mad  and  fast ; 
From  hand  to  hand,  from  gate  to  gate, 

The  flaming  brand  is  passed. 


AT  PORT  ROYAL.  305 

The  lurid  glow  falls  strong  across 

Dark  faces  broad  with  smiles  ; 
Not*  theirs  the  terror,  hate,  and  loss 

That  fire  yon  blazing  piles. 

With  oar-strokes  timing  to  their  song, 

They  weave  in  simple  lays 
The  pathos  of  remembered  wrong, 

The  hope  of  better  days,  — 

The  triumph  note  that  Miriam  sung, 

The  joy  of  uncaged  birds  ; 
Softening  with  Afric's  mellow  tongue 

Their  broken  Saxon  words. 


So  sing  our  dusky  gondoliers ; 

And  with  a  secret  pain, 
And  smiles  that  seem  akin  to  tears, 

We  hear  the  wild  refrain. 

We  dare  not  share  the  negro's  trust, 

Nor  yet  his  hope  deny ; 
We  only  know  that  God  is  just, 

And  every  wrong  shall  die. 

Eude  seems  the  song ;  each  swarthy  face, 

Flame-lighted,  ruder  still : 
We  start  to  think  that  hapless  race 

Must  shape  our  good  or  ill ; 

That  laws  of  changeless  justice  bind 
Oppressor  with  oppressed ; 

20 


306  THE  FALL   OF  RICHMOND. 

And,  close  as  sin  and  suffering  joined, 
We  march  to  fate  abreast, 

Sing  on,  po9r  hearts  !  your  chant  shall  be 

Our  sign  of  blight  or  bloom,  — 
The  Vala-song  of  Liberty, 

Or  death-rune  of  our  doom. 

WHITTIER. 

This  always  recalls  our  winter  at  Port  Royal,  1862,  and  the  songs  of  the  negroes 
which  we  heard  as  they  passed  our  house,  just  outside  of  the  Union  .lines  and 
within  four  miles  of  the  enemy. 


THE   FALL   OF   RICHMOND. 

ROLL  not  a  drum,  sound  not  a  clarion  note 
Of  haughty  triumph  to  the  listening  sky ; 

Hushed  be  the  shout  of  joy  in  every  throat, 
And  veiled  the  flash  of  pride  in  every  eye. 

Not  with  Te  Deums  loud,  and  high  hosannas, 
Hail  we  the  awful  victory  we  have  won ; 

But  with  our  arms  reversed,  and  lowered  banners, 
Stand  we,  —  our  work  is  done. 

Thy  work  is  done,  —  God,  terrible  and  just, 

Who  lay'st  upon  our  hearts  and  hands  this  task, 

Now  kneeling  with  our  foreheads  in  the  dust, 
We  venture  —  peace  to  ask. 

Bleeding  and  writhing  underneath  our  sword, 
Prostrate  our  brothers  lie,  —  my  fallen  foe, 

Struck  down  through  us  by  thee,  omnipotent  Lord, 
By  thy  dread  hand  laid  low. 


THE  FALL   OF  RICHMOND.  307 

• 

For  our  own  guilt  have  we  been  doomed  to  smite 
These  our  own  kindred,  thy  great  law  defying,  — 

These  our  own  flesh  and  blood  who  now  unite 
For  one  thing  with  us,  —  bravely  dying ; 

Dying  how  bravely,  but  how  bitterly, 

Not  for  the  better  side,  but  for  the  worse ; 

Blindly  and  wearily  striving  against  thee, 

For  the  bad  cause  where  thou  hast  set  thy  curse. 

At  whose  defeat  we  may  not  raise  our  voice, 
Save  in  the  deep  thanksgiving  of  our  prayers. 

Lord,  we  have  fought  the  fight,  but  to  rejoice 
Is  ours  no  more  than  theirs. 

Call  back  thy  dreadful  ministers  of  wrath 
Who  have  led  on  our  hosts  to  this  great  day ; 

Let  our  feet  halt  in  the  avenger's  path, 
And  bid  our  weapons  stay. 

And  our  land,  freedom's  inheritance, 

Turn  thou  once  more  the  blessing  of  thy  face ; 

Where  nations  serving  thee  towards  light  advance, 
Give  us  again  our  place. 

Not  our  bewildering  past  prosperity, 

Not  all  thy  former  ill-acknowledged  grace, 

But  this  one  boon,  —  God  grant  us  still  to  be 
The  home  of  hope  for  the  whole  human  race. 

MRS.  KEMBLE. 


308  SONNETS   ON   THE  AMERICAN   WAR. 


SONNETS   ON   THE  AMERICAN  WAR. 


SHE  has  gone  down ;  they  shout  it  from  ai'ar,  — 

Kings,  nobles,  priests,  all  men  of  every  race 

Whose  lagging  clogs  time's  swift,  relentless  pace. 

She  has  gone  down,  —  our  evil-boding  star. 

Rebellion  smitten  with  rebellion's  sword, 

Anarchy  done  to  death  by  slavery 

Of  ancient  right,  insolvent  enemy  ; 

Beneath  a  hideous  cloud  of  civil  war, 

Strife,  such  as  heathen  slaughterers  had  abhorred, 

The  lawless  land  where  no  man  was  called  lord, 

Spurning  all  wholesome  curb,  and  dreaming  free, 

Her  rabble  rules  licentious  tyranny  ; 

In  the  fierce  splendor  of  her  arrogant  morn 

She  has  gone  down,  —  the  world's  eternal  scorn. 

II. 

SHE  has  gone  down,  —  woe  for  the  world  and  all 
The  weary  workers,  gazing  from  afar 
At  the  clear  rising  of  that  hopeful  star  ; 
Star  of  redemption  to  each  weeping  thrall 
Of  power  decrepit,  and  of  rule  outworn  ; 
Beautiful  shining  of  that  blessed  morn 
Which  was  to  bring  leave  for  the  poor  to  live, 
To  work  and  rest,  to  labor  and  to  thrive, 
And  righteous  room  for  all  who  nobly  strive. 
She  has  gone  down,  —  woe  for  the  struggling  world, 
Back  on  its  path  of  progress  sternly  hurled  ! 
Land  of  sufficient  harvests  for  all  dearth, 


JOHN  A.  ANDREW.  309 

Home  of  far-seeing  hope,  time's  latest  birth, 
Woe  for  the  promised  land  of  the  whole  earth ! 

in. 

TRIUMPH  not,  fools,  and  weep  not,  ye  faint-hearted ! 

Have  ye  believed  that  the  supreme  decree 

Of  Heaven  had  given  this  people  o'er  to  perish  ? 

Have  ye  believed  that  God  had  ceased  to  cherish 

This  great,  new  world  of  Christian  liberty  ? 

Nay,  by  the  precious  blood  shed  to  redeem 

The  nation  from  its  selfishness  and  sin ; 

By  each  brave  heart  that  bends  in  holy  strife, 

Leaving  its  kindred  hearts  to  break  through  life ; 

By  all  the  bitter  tears,  whose  source  must  stream 

Forever  every  desolate  home  within,  — 

We  will  return  to  our  appointed  place, 

First  in  the  vanguard  of  the  human  race. 

MRS.  KEMBLE. 


JOHN  A.   ANDKEW. 

1867. 

O  LARGE  of  heart,  and  grand,  and  calm, 
Who  held  the  helm  of  State  so  long, 

Our  plaining  mingles  with  our  praise, 
Our  sorrow  sanctifies  our  song. 

Clear  eyes,  kind  lips  so  silent  now, 
Ears  deaf  to  all  our  worldly  din, 

Great  soul,  which  has  not  left  its  peer, 
We  would  the  grave-sods  had  shut  in 


310  THE  NATION'S  DEAD. 

Some  lesser  man,  and  we,  to-day, 
Had  thy  strong  will  to  urge  us  on, 

Thy  brain  to  plan,  thy  hands  to  help, 
Thy  cheerful  voice  to  say  "  Well  done  ! " 

LOUISE  CHANDLER,  MOULTON. 


THE  NATION'S   DEAD. 

FOUR  hundred  thousand  men, 

The  brave,  the  good,  the  true, 
In  tangled  wood,  in  mountain  glen, 
On  battle  plain,  in  prison  pen, 

Lie  dead  for  me  and  you. 
Four  hundred  thousand  of  the  brave 
Have  made  our  ransomed  soil  their  grave, 
For  me  and  you, 

Good  friend,  for  me  and  you. 

In  many  a  fevered  swamp, 

By  many  a  black  bayou, 
In  many  a  cold  and  frozen  camp, 
The  weary  sentinel  ceased  his  tramp, 

And  died  for  me  and  you. 
From  western  plain  to  ocean  tide 
Are  stretched  the  graves  of  those  who  died 
For  me  and  you, 

Good  friend,  for  me  and  you. 

On  many  a  bloody  plain 

Their  ready  swords  they  drew, 

And  poured  their  life-blood  like  the  rain, 

A  home,  a  heritage,  to  gain, 
To  gain  for  me  and  you. 


THE  NATION'S   DEAD.  311 

Our  brothers  mustered  by  our  side, 

They  marched,  and  fought,  and  bravely  died 

For  me  and  you, 
Good  friend,  for  me  and  you. 

Up  many  a  fortress  wall 

They  charged,  those  boys  in  blue  ; 
'Mid  surging  smoke  and  volleyed  ball, 
The  bravest  were  the  first  to  fall, 

To  fall  for  me  and  you. 
Those  noble  men,  the  nation's  pride, 
Four  hundred  thousand  men,  have  died 
For  me  and  you, 

Good  friend,  for  me  and  you. 

In  treason's  prison-hold 

Their  martyr  spirits  grew 
To  stature  like  the  saints  of  old, 
While,  amid  agonies  untold, 

They  starved  for  me  and  you. 
The  good,  the  patient,  and  the  trie'd, 
Four  hundred  thousand  men,  have  died 
For  me  and  you, 

Good  friend,  for  me  and  you. 

A  debt  we  ne'er  can  pay 

To  them  is  justly  due  ; 
And  to  the  nation's  latest  day 
Our  children's  children  still  shall  say, 

"  They  died  for  me  and  you." 
Four  hundred  thousand  of  the  brave 
Made  this,  our  ransomed  soil,  their  grave, 
For  me  and  you, 

Good  friend,  for  me  and  you. 

ANONYMOUS,  Round  Table. 


312  RED,    WHITE,  AND  BLUE. 


RED,  WHITE,  AND   BLUE.. 

O  COLUMBIA,  the  gem  of  the  ocean, 

The  home  of  the  brave  and  the  free, 
The  shrine  of  each  patriot's  devotion, 

A  world  offers  homage  to  thee ! 
Thy  mandates  make  heroes  assemble 

When  liberty's  form  stands  in  view, 
Thy  banners  make  tyranny  tremble 

When  borne  by  the  red,  white,  and  blue. 

When  war  winged  its  wide  desolation, 

And  threatened  the  land  to  deform, 
The  ark  then  of  freedom's  foundation, 

Columbia  rode  safe  through  the  storm  ; 
With  garlands  of  victory  around  her, 

When  so  proudly  she  bore  her  brave  crew, 
With  her  flag  proudly  floating  before  her, 

The  boast  of  the  red,  white,  and  blue.    - 

Cold  water,  cold  water,  bring  hither, 

And  fill  up  the  cup  to  the  brim ; 
May  the  wreaths  it  has  worn  never  wither, 

Nor  the  star  of  its  glory  grow  dim ! 
May  its  subjects,  united,  ne'er  sever, 

But  they  to  their  colors  prove  true, 
The  flag  of  our  Union  forever, 

Three  cheers  for  the  red,  white,  and  blue  ! 

ANONYMOUS. 


THE  BATTLE-CRY  OF  FREEDOM.  313 

THE  BATTLE-CKY  OF  FEEEDOM. 

KALLYING-SONG. 

YES,  we  11  rally  round  the  flag,  boys,  rally  once  again, 

Shouting  tha  battle-cry  of  freedom  ; 

And  we  11  rally  from  the  hillside,  we  11  gather  from  the  plain, 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom. 

The  Union  forever,  hurrah,  boys,  hurrah ! 
Down  with  the  traitor,  up  with  the  star ; 
While  we  rally  round  the  flag,  boys,  rally  once  again, 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom. 

We  are  springing  to  the  call  of  our  brothers  gone  before, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom ; 
And  we  '11  fill  the  vacant  ranks  with  a  million  freemen  more, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom. 
The  Union  forever,  &c. 

We  will  welcome  to  our  numbers  the  loyal,  true,  and  brave, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom ; 
And  although  they  may  be  poor,  not  a  man  shall  be  a  slave, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom. 
The  Union  forever,  &c. 

So  we  're  springing  to  the  call,  from  the  East  and  from  the  West, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom  ; 
And  well  hurl  the  rebel  crew  from  the  land  we  love  the  best, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom. 
The  Union  forever,  &c. 

BATTLE-SONG. 

''e  are  marching  to  the  field,  boys,  we  're  going  to  the  fight, 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom ; 


314  MARCHING    THROUGH  GEORGIA. 

And  we  bear  the  glorious  stars  for  the  Union  and  the  right, 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom  ; 

The  Union  forever,*hurrah,  boys,  hurrah  ! 
Down  with  the  traitor,  up  with  the  star, 
For  we  're  marching  to  the  field,  boys,  going  to  the  fight, 
Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom. 

We  will  meet  the  rebel  host,  boys,  with  fearless  heart  and  true, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom ; 
And  we  '11  show  what  Uncle  Sam  has  for  loyal  men  to  do, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom.- 
The  Union  forever,  &c. 

If  we  fall  amid  the  fray,  boys,  we  '11  face  them  to  the  last, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom ; 
And  our  comrades  brave  shall  hear  us,  as  they  go  rushing  past, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom. 
,  The  Union  forever,  &c. 

Yes,  for  Liberty  and  Union  we  're  springing  to  the  fight,    , 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom  ; 
And  the  victory  shall  be  ours,  for  we  're  rising  in  our  might, 

Shouting  the  battle-cry  of  freedom. 
The  Union  forever,  &c. 


ROOT. 


MARCHING  THROUGH   GEORGIA. 

BRING  the  good  old  bugle,  boys,  we  '11  sing  another  song, 
Sing  it  with  a  spirit  that  will  start  the  world  along,  — 
Sing  it  as  we  used  to  sing  it,  fifty  thousand  strong, 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia.  - 
Hurrah,  hurrah,  we  bring  the  Jubilee  ! 
Hurrah,  hurrah,  the  flag  that  makes  you  free  ! 
So  we  sang  the  chorus  from  Atlanta  to  the  sea, 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia. 


BARBARA   FRIETCHIE.  315 

How  the  darkeys  shouted  when  they  heard  the  joyful  sound, 
How  the  turkeys  gobbled  which  our  commissary  found, 
How  the  sweet  potatoes  even  started  from  the  ground, 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia. 
Hurrah,  hurrah,  &c. 

Yes,  and  there  were  Union  men  who  wept  with  joyful  tears, 
When  they  saw  the  honored  flag  they  had  not  seen  for  years  ; 
Hardly  could  they  be  restrained  from  breaking  forth  in  cheers, 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia. 
Hurrah,  hurrah,  &c. 

"  Sherman's  dashing  Yankee  boys  will  never  reach  the  coast," 
So  the  saucy  rebels  said ;  and  't  was  a  handsome  boast, 
Had  they  not  forgot,  alas  !  to  reckon  with  the  host, 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia. 
Hurrah,  hurrah,  &c. 

So  we  made  a  thoroughfare  for  Freedom  and  her  train, 
Sixty  miles  in  latitude,  three  hundred  to  the  main ; 
Treason  fled  before  us,  for  resistance  was  in  vain,    . 
While  we  were  marching  through  Georgia. 

Hurrah,  hurrah,  &c. 

WORK. 

When  General  SHERMAN,  Admirals  PORTER,  ALDRN,  and  others  visited  NAUSHON 
just  after  the  war,  this,  and  similar  songs  were  sung  by  our  young  people  with 
great  glee  on  their  part,  and  with  much  apparent  enjoyment  hy  our  visitors. 


BARBARA   FRIETCHIE. 

UP  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 

The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand, 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 


316  BARBARA   FRIETCHIE. 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple  and  peach  tree  fruited  deep, 

Fair  as  a  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde ; 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  fall 
When  Lee  marched  over  the  mountain  wall, 

Over  the  mountains,  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot,  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind ;  the  sun 
Of  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten ; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down ;  • 

In  her  attic  window  the  staff  she  set, 
To  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
He  glanced :  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 

"  Halt !  "  the  dust-brown  ranks  stood  fast ; 
"  Fire  ! "  out  blazed  the  rifle-blast. 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash ; 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash. 


BARBARA    FRIETCHIE.  317 

Quick,  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken  staff 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf ; 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

"  Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head, 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she  said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came ; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word : 

"  Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog  —  march  on  ! "  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet ; 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tost 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host- 
Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well ; 

/ 

And  through  the  hill-gaps  sunset  light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night. 

Barbara  Frietc'hie's  work  is  o'er, 

And  the  rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no  more. 

Honor  to  her,  and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  Stone  wall's  bier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave, 
Flag  of  freedom  and  union,  wave  ! 


318  TRAMP,    TRAMP,    TRAMP. 

Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law  ; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  down 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town. 

WHITTIER. 


TRAMP,  TRAMP,   TRAMP. 

IN  the  prison  cell  I  sit,  thinking,  mother  dear,  of  you, 

And  our  bright  and  happy  home  so  far  away ; 
And  the  tears  they  fill  my  eyes,  spite  of  all  that  I  can  do, 
Though  I  try  to  cheer  my  comrades  and  be  gay. 
Tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  the  boys  are  marching, 
Cheer  up,  comrades,  they  will  come ; 
And  beneath  the  starry  flag 
We  shall  breathe  the  air  again 
Of  the  free  land  in  our  own  beloved  home. 

In  the  battle  front  we  stood,  when  their  fiercest  charge  they 

made, 

And  they  swept  us  off,  a  hundred  men  or  more ; 
But  before  they  reached  our  lines  they  were  beaten  back  dis- 
mayed, 

And  we  heard  the  cry  of  victory  o'er  and  o'er. 
Tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  &c. 

So  within  the  prison  cell  we  are  waiting  for  the  day 

That  shall  come  to  open  wide  the  iron  door ; 
And  the  hollow  eye  grows  bright,  and  the  poor  heart  almost  gay, 

As  we  think  of  seeing  home  and  friends  once  more. 

Tramp,  tramp,  tramp,  &c. 

ROOT. 


BOSTON.  319 


BOSTON. 

SICUT   PATRIBUS,   SIT  DEUS   NOBIS. 

THE  rocky  nook  with  hill-tops  three 
Looked  eastward  from  the  farms, 
And  twice  each  day  the  flowing  sea 
Took  Boston  in  its  arms  ; 

The  men  of  yore  were  stout  and  poor, 
And  sailed  for  bread  to  every  shore. 

And  where  they  went,  on  trade  intent, 

They  did  what  freemen  can  ; 
Their  dauntless  ways  did  all  men  praise, 
The  merchant  was  a  man. 

The  world  was  made  for  honest  trade, 
To  plant  and  eat  be  none  afraid. 

The  waves  that  rocked  them  on  the  deep 

To  them  their  secret  told  ; 
Said  the  winds  that  sung  the  lads  to  sleep, 
"  Like  us  be  free  and  bold  ! " 

The  honest  waves  refuse  to  slaves 
The  empire  of  the  ocean  caves. 

Old  Europe  groans  with  palaces, 

Has  lords  enough  and  more ; 
We  plant  and  build  by  foaming  seas 
A  city  of  the  poor ;  — 

For  day  by  day  could  Boston  Bay 
Their  honest  labor  overpay. 

We  grant  no  dukedoms  to  the  few, 
We  hold  like  rights  and  shall;  — 


320  BOSTON. 

Equal  on  Sunday  in  the  pew, 
Oh  Monday  in  the  mall. 

For  what  avail  the  plough  or  sail, 
Or  land  or  life,  if  freedom  fail  ? 

The  noble  craftsmen  we  promote, 

Disown  the  knave  and  fool ; 
Each  honest  man  shall  have  his  vote, 
Each  child  shall  have  his  school. 
A  union  then  of  honest  men, 
Or  union  nevermore  again. 

The  wild  rose  and  the  barbary  thorn 
Hung  out  their  summer  pride 

Where  now  on  heated  pavements  worn 
The  feet  of  millions  stride. 


0  happy  town  beside  the  sea, 

Whose  roads  lead  everywhere  to  all ; 

Than  thine  no  deeper  moat  can  be, 
No  stouter  fence,  no  steeper  wall ! 

Bad  news  from  George  on  the  English  throne 

"  You  are  thriving  well,"  said  he ; 
"  Now  by  these  presents  be  it  known, 
You  shall  pay  us  a  tax  on  tea ; 

'T  is  very  small,  —  no  load  at  all,  — 
Honor  enough  that  we  send  the  call." 

"  Not  so,"  said  Boston,  "  good  my  lord, 

We  pay  your  governors  here 
Abundant  for  their  bed  and  board, 

Six  thousand  pounds  a  year. 


FREMONT  AND   VICTORY.        ,  321 

(Your  Highness  knows  our  homely  word,) 
Millions  for  self-government, 
But  for  tribute  never  a  cent." 

The  cargo  came  !  and  who  could  blame 

If  Indians  seized  the  tea, 
And,  chest  by  chest,  let  down  the  same 
Into  the  laughing  sea  ? 

For  what  avail  the  plough  or  sail, 
Or  land  or  life,  if  freedom  fail  ? 

EMERSON. 

Read  in  Faneuil  Hall,  on  the  Centennial  Anniversary  of  the  Destruction  of  the 
Tea,  Dec.  16,  1873. 

FREMONT  AND   VICTORY. 

PRIZE   SONG. 
AlR  :  "  Suoni  la  Tromba. " 

MEN  of  the  North,  who  remember 
The  deeds  of  your  sires,  ever  glorious, 
Join  in  our  psean  victorious, 

The  paean  of  liberty  ! 
Hark  !  on  the  gales  of  November 
Millions  of  voices  are  ringing ; 
Glorious  the  song  they  are  singing, 

Fremont  and  Victory ! 
Hurrah ! 
Join  the  great  chorus  they  're  singing, 

Fremont  and  Victory  ! 

Come  from  your  forest-clad  mountains, 
Come  from  the  fields  of  your  tillage, 
Come  forth  from  city  and  village, 
Join  the  great  host  of  the  free  ! 
21 


322  FREMONT  AND   VICTORY. 

As  from  their  cavernous  fountains 
Koll  the  deep  floods  to  the  ocean, 
Join  the  great  army  in  motion, 

Marching  to  Victory  ! 

Hurrah ! 
Echoes  from  ocean  to  ocean, 

Fremont  and  Victory  ! 

Far  in  the  West  rolls  the  thunder, 
The  tumult  of  battle  is  raging, 
Where  bleeding  Kansas  is  waging 

Warfare  with  slavery! 
Struggling  with  foes  who  surround  her, 
Lo  !  she  implores  you  to  stay  her ! 
Will  you  to  slavery  betray  her  ? 

Never  —  she  shall  be  free  ! 

i 

Hurrah  ! 

Swear  that  you  '11  never  betray  her : 
Kansas  shall  yet  be  free ! 

March  !  we  have  sworn  to  support  her ; 
The  prayers  of  the  righteous  shall  speed  us, 
A  chief  never  conquered  shall  lead  us, 

Fremont  shall  lead  the  free  ! 
Then  from  those  fields  red  with  slaughter, 
Slavery's  hordes  shall  be  driven, 
Freedom  to  Kansas  be  given, 

Fremont  shall  make  her  free ! 

Hurrah  ! 
To  Kansas  shall  freedom  be  given : 

Fremont  shall  make  her  free ! 

Men  of  the  North,  who  remember 
The  deeds  of  your  sires,  ever  glorious, 


TO  R.  W.  E.  323 

Join  in  our  psean  victorious, 

The  psean  of  liberty  ! 
Hark  !  on  the  gales  of  November, 
Millions  of  voices  are  ringing ; 
Glorious  the  song  they  are  singing, 

Fremont  and  Victory ! 

Hurrah  ! 
Join  the  great  chorus  they  're  singing, 

Fremont  and  Victory  ! 

CHARLES  S*  WEYMAN. 

On  Aug.  2,  1856,  during  the  Fremont  campaign,  I  offered  anonymously  through 
the  editorial  columns  of  the  "New  York  Evening  Post,"  a  prize  of  $100  for  the 
best  Republican  song  in  English,  and  $100  for  the  best  one  in  German  ;  the  songs 
to  be  handed  in  to  the  office  of  the  "Post"  on  or  before  Sept.  1,  1856.  The 
advertisement  also  stated  that,  "if  equal  in  other  respects,  preference  will 
be  given  to  songs  adapted  to  the  air  of  Suoni  la  Tromba,  from  II  Puritani." 
In  the  issue  of  Sept.  2,  1856,  the  "  Post ''  announced  that  GEORGE  W.  CURTIS, 
PARKE  GODWIN,  and  FREDERIC  W.  RACKEMAN  had  consented  to  act  as  a 
committee  to  examine  the  songs  and  award  the  prizes.  On  September  12,  these 
gentlemen  reported  that  they  had  "carefully  read  and  examined  about  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  contributions,  which  were  sent  in  from  nearly  all  parts  of  the 
Union,"  and  had  awarded  one  prize  to  the  above  poem  by  CHARLES  S.  WEYMAN, 
of  NEW  YORK,  and  the  other  to  the  German  song  entitled  "  Freiheitslied  der 
Deutschen  Republicaner,"  by  E.  VITALIS  SCHREB,  of  BOSTON. 

Another  very  valuable  poem  came  in  too  late  for  the  award,  from  Mr.  WHITTIER. 
It  has  been  lost ;  but  we  still  hope  to  recover  it. 


TO   R  W.    E. 

"  Dry  light  makes  the  best  souls."  —  R.  W.  E. 

"  DRY-LIGHTED  soul,"  the  ray  that  shines  in  thee 

Shot  without  reflex  from  primeval  sun  ; 
We  twine  the  laurel  for  the  victories 

Which  thou  on  Thought's  broad,  bloodless  field  hast  won. 


324  TO    THE  HUMBLE-BEE. 

Thou  art  the  mountain  where  we  climb  to  see 
The  land  our  feet  have  trod  this  many  a  year ; 

Thou  art  the  deep  and  crystal  winter  sky, 

Where  noiseless,  one  by  one,  bright  stars  appear. 

It  may  be,  Bacchus  at  thy  birth  forgot 

That  drop  from  out  the  purple  grape  to  press 

Which  is  his  gift  to  man,  and  so  thy  blood 

Doth  miss  the  heat  which  ofttimes  breeds  excess. 

But  all  more  surely  do  we  turn  to  thee 

When  the  day's  heat  and  blinding  dust  are  o'er, 

And  cool  our  souls  in  thy  refreshing  air, 

And  find  the  peace  which  we  had  lost  before. 

E.  S.  H. 


TO   THE  HUMBLE-BEE. 

BURLY,  dozing  humble-bee ! 
Where  thou  art  is  clime  for  me ; 
Let  them  sail  for  Porto  Rique, 
Far-off  heats  through  seas  to  seek, 
I  will  follow  thee  alone, 
Thou  animated  torrid  zone  ! 
Zigzag  steerer,  desert  cheerer, 
Let  me  chase  thy  waving  lines ; 
Keep  me  nearer,  me  thy  hearer, 
Singing  over  shrubs  and  vines. 

Insect  lover  of  the  sun, 
Joy  of  thy  dominion  ! 
Sailor  of  the  atmosphere, 
Swimmer  through  the  waves  of  air, 


TO    THE  HUMBLE-BEE.  325 

Voyager  of  light  and  noon, 
Epicurean  of  June ! 
Wait,  I  prithee,  till  I  come 
Within  ear-shot  of  thy  hum,  — 
All  without  is  martyrdom. 

When  the  south-wind,  in  May  days, 
With  a  net  of  shining  haze 
Silvers  the  horizon  wall, 
And,  with  softness  touching  all, 
Tints  the  human  countenance 
With  the  color  of  romance, 
And  infusing  subtle  heats 
Turns  the  sod  to  violets,  — 
Thou  in  sunny  solitudes, 
Rover  of  the  underwoods, 
The  green  silence  dost  displace 
With  thy  mellow  breezy  bass. 

Hot  Midsummer's  petted  crone, 
Sweet  to  me  thy  drowsy  tone 
Tells  of  countless  sunny  hours, 
Long  days,  and  solid  banks  of  flowers ; 
Of  gulfs  of  sweetness  without  bound, 
In  Indian  wildernesses  found; 
Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure, 
Firmest  cheer,  and  birdlike  pleasure. 

Aught  unsavory  or  unclean 

Hath  my  insect  never  seen ; 

But  violets,  and  bilberry  bells, 

Maple  sap,  and  daffodels, 

Grass  with  green  flag  half-mast  high, 

Succory  to  match  the  sky, 


326  /    WOULD  NOT  LIVE  ALWAY. 

Columbine  with  horn  of  honey, 
Scented  fern,  and  agrimony, 
Clover,  catchfly,  adder's-tongue, 
And  brier-roses,  dwelt  among  : 
All  beside  was  unknown  waste, 
All  was  picture  as  he  passed. . 
Wiser  far  than  human  seer, 
Yellow-breeched  philosopher, 
Seeing  only  what  is  fair, 

Sipping  only  what  is  sweet, 
Thou  dost  mock  at  fate  and  care, 

Leave  the  chaff  and  take  the  wheat. 
When  the  fierce  northwestern  blast 
Cools  sea  and  land  so  far  and  fast,  — 
Thou  already  slumberest  deep : 
Woe  and  want  thou  canst  out-sleep ; 
Want  and  woe,  which  torture  us, 
Thy  sleep  makes  ridiculous. 


EMERSON. 


I   WOULD   NOT  LIVE   ALWAY. 

I  WOULD  not  live  alway :  I  ask  not  to  stay 
Where  storm  after  storm  rises  dark  o'er  the  way ; 
Where,  seeking  for  rest,  I  but  hover  around 
Like  the  patriarch's  bird,  and  no  resting  is  found  ; 
Where  Hope,  when  she  paints  her  gay  bow  in  the  air, 
Leaves  her  brilliance  to  fade  in  the  night  of  despair, 
And  joy's  fleeting  angel  ne'er  sheds  a  glad  ray, 
Save  the  gleam  of  the  plumage  that  bears  him  away. 

Who,  who  would  live  alway  away  from  his  God, 
Away  from  yon  heaven,  that  blissful  abode, 


WHY  THUS  LONGING  f  327 

Where  the  rivers  of  pleasure  flow  o'er  the  bright  plains, 
And  the  noontide  of  glory  eternally  reigns ; 
Where  the  saints  of  all  ages  in  harmony  meet, 
Their  Saviour  and  brethren  transported  to  greet, 
While  the  anthems  of  rapture  unceasingly  roll, 
And  the  smile  of  the  Lord  is  the  feast  of  the  soul  ? 

W.    A.    MCHLEXBERG. 


WHY   THUS   LONGING? 

WHY  thus  longing,  thus  forever  sighing, 

For  the  far-off,  unattained,  and  dim, 
While  the  beautiful,  all  round  thee  lying, 
Offers  up  its  low,  perpetual  hymn  ? 

Wouldst  thou  listen  to  its  gentle  teaching, 
All  thy  restless  yearnings  it  would  still ; 

Leaf  and  flower  and  laden  bee  are  preaching 
Thine  own  sphere,  though  humble,  first  to  fill 

Poor  indeed  thou  must  be,  if  around  thee 
Thou  no  ray  of  light  and  joy  canst  throw, 

If  no  silken  cord  of  love  hath  bound  thee 
To  some  little  world  through  weal  and  woe ; 

If  no  dear  eyes  thy  fond  love  can  brighten, 
No  fond  voices  answer  to  thine  own, 

If  no  brother's  sorrow  thou  canst  lighten 
By  daily  sympathy  and  gentle  tone. 

Not  by  deeds  that  gain  the  world's  applauses, 
Not  by  works  that  win  thee  world  renown, 

Not  by  martyrdom  or  vaunted  crosses', 

Canst  thou  win  and  wear  the  immortal  crown. 


328  COMMEMORATION  ODE. 

Daily  struggling,  though  unloved  and  lonely, 

Every  day  a  rich  reward  will  give ; 
Thou  wilt  find  by  hearty  striving  only, . 

And  truly  loving,  thou  canst  truly  live. 

t 

Dost  thou  revel  in  the  rosy  morning 
When  all  nature  hails  the  lord  of  light, 

And  his  smile,  nor  low  nor  lofty  scorning, 
Gladdens  hall  and  hovel,  vale  and  height  ? 

Other  hands  may  grasp  the  field  and  forest, 
Proud  proprietors  in  pomp  may  shine ; 

But  with  fervent  love  if  thou  adorest, 

Thou  art  wealthier,  —  all  the  world  is  thine. 

Yet  if  through  earth's  wide  domains  thou  rovest, 
Sighing  that  they  are  not  thine  alone, 

Not  those  fair  fields,  but  thyself  thou  lovest, 
And  their  beauty  and  thy  wealth  are  gone. 

HARRIET  WINSLOW  SEWALL. 


COMMEMOEATION   ODE. 

HARVARD   UNIVERSITY,   JULY   21,  1865 

WE  sit  here  in  the  Promised  Land 
That  flows  with  Freedom's  honey  and  milk ; 
But  't  was  they  won  it,  sword  in  hand, 
Making  the  nettle  danger  soft  for  us  as  silk. 
We  welcome  back  our  bravest  and  our  best ;  — 
Ah  me  !  not  all !  some  come  not  with  the  rest, 
Who  went  forth  brave  and  bright  as  any  here ! 
I  strive  to  mix  some  gladness  with  my  strain, 
But  the  sad  strings  complain, 


COMMEMORATION  ODE.  329 

And  will  not  please  the  ear ; 
I  sweep  them  for  a  paean,  but  they  wane 

Again  and  yet  again 
Into  a  dirge,  and  die  away  in  pain. 
In  these  brave  ranks  I  only  see  the  gaps, 
Thinking  of  dear  ones  whom  the  dumb  turf  wraps, 
Dark  to  the  triumph  which  they  died  to  gain  : 
Fitlier  may  others  greet  the  living, 
For  me  the  past  is  unforgiving ; 

I  with  uncovered  head 

Salute  the  sacred  dead, 
Who  went,  and  who  return  not.  — 

Say  not  so  ! 

'T  is  not  the  grapes  of  Canaan  that  repay, 
But  the  high  faith  that  failed  not  by  the  way ; 
Virtue  treads  paths  that  end  not  in  the  grave; 
No  bar  of  endless  night  exiles  the  brave ; 

And  to  the  saner  mind 
We  rather  seem  the,  dead  that  stayed  behind. 
Blow,  trumpets,  all  your  exultations  blow ! 
For  never  shall  their  aureoled  presence  lack : 
I  see  them  muster  in  a  gleaming  row, 
With  ever-youthful  brows  that  nobler  show ; 
We  find  in  our  dull  road  their  shining  track ; 

In  every  nobler  mood 
We  feel  the  orient  of  their  spirit  glow, 
Part  of  our  life's  unalterable  good, 
Of  all  our  saintlier  aspiration  ; 

They  come  transfigured  back, 
Secure  from  change  in  their  high-hearted  ways, 
Beautiful  evermore,  and  with  the  rays 
Of  morn  on  their  white  Shields  of  Expectation ! 

LOWELL. 


330  SONG. 

SONG. 

READ   BY   THE   AUTHOR   AT   THE   DICKENS   DINNER,    1872. 
Am  :  "  Gramachree." 

THE  stars  their  early  vigils  keep, 

The  silent  hours  are  near, 
When  drooping  eyes  forget  to  weep  — 

Yet  still  we  linger  here. 
And  what  —  the  passing  churl  may  ask  - 

Can  claim  such  wondrous  power, 
That  toil  forgets  his  wonted  task, 

And  love  his  promised  hour  ? 

The  Irish  harp  no  longer  thrills, 

Or  breathes  a  fainter  tone,  — 
The  clarion  blast  from  Scotland's  hills, 

Alas !  no  more  is  blown ; 
And  passion's  burning  lip  bewails 

Her  Harold's  wasted  fire, 
Still  lingering  o'er  the  dust  that  veils 

The  Lord  of  England's  lyre. 

But  grieve  not  o'er  its  broken  strings, 

Nor  think  its  soul  hath  died, 
While  yet  the  lark  at  Heaven's  gate  sings, 

As  once  o'er  Avon's  tide,  — 
While  gentle  summer  sheds  her  bloom, 

And  dewy  blossoms  wave 
Alike  o'er  Juliet's  storied  tomb 

And  Nelly's  nameless  grave. 


BURNS.  331 

Thou  glorious  island  of  the  sea, 

Though  wide  the  wasting  flood 
That  parts  our  distant  land  from  thee, 

We  claim  thy  generous  blood ;  , 

Nor  o'er  thy  far  horizon  springs 

One  hallowed  star  of  fame, 
But  kindles,  like  an  angel's  wings, 

Our  western  skies  in  flame ! 

HOLMES. 


BURNS. 

TO  A  ROSE,  BROUGHT  FROM  NEAR  ALLOWAY  KIRK,  IN  AYRSHIRE,  IN 
THE  AUTUMN  OF   1822. 

WILD  rose  of  Alloway !  my  thanks  : 
Thou  'mind'st  me  of  that  autumn  noon 

When  first  we  met  upon  "  the  banks 
And  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon." 


Not  so  his  memory,  for  whose  sake 
My  bosom  bore  thee  far  and  long,  — 

His,  who  a  humbler  flower  could  make 
Immortal  as  his  song  : 

The  memory  of  Burns,  —  a  name 

That  calls,  when  brimmed  her  festal  cup, 

A  nation's  glory  and  her  shame 
In  silent  sadness  up ; 

A  nation's  glory,  —  be  the  rest 

Forgot,  —  she 's  canonized  his  mind ; 

And  it  is  joy  to  speak  the  best 
We  may  of  humankind. 


332  BURNS. 

I  've  stood  beside  the  cottage  bed 

Where  the  bard-peasant  first  drew  breath ; 

A  straw-thatched  roof  above  his  head,  . 
A  straw-wrought  couch  beneath. 

And  I  have  stood  beside  the  pile, 

His  monument,  —  that  tells  to  Heaven 

The  homage  of  earth's  proudest  isle 
To  that  bard-peasant  given. 

There  have  been  loftier  themes  than  his, 
And  longer  scrolls,  and  louder  lyres, 

And  lays  lit  up  with  Poesy's 
Purer  and  holier  fires  : 

Yet  read  the  names  that  know  not  death ; 

Few  nobler  ones  than  Burns'  are  there, 
And  few  have  won  a  greener  wreath 

Than  that  which  binds  his  hair. 

His  is  that  language  of  the  heart 

In  which  the  answering  heart  would  speak, 

Thought,  word,  that  bids  the  warm  tear  start, 
Or  the  smile  light  the  cheek ; 

And  his  that  music  to  whose  tone 

The  common  pulse  of  man  keeps  time, 

In  cot  or  castle's  mirth  or  moan, 
In  cold  or  sunny  clime. 

Arid  who  hath  heard  his  song,  nor  knelt 
Before  its  spell  with  willing  knee, 

And  listened,  and  believed,  and  felt 
The  poet's  mastery 


BURNS.  333 

O'er  the  mind's  sea,  in  calm  and  storm, 
O'er  the  heart's  sunshine  and  its  showers, 

O'er  Passion's  moments,  bright  and  warm, 
O'er  Reason's  dark,  cold  hours; 

On  fields  where  brave  men  "  die  or  do," 
In  halls  where  rings  the  banquet's  mirth, 

Where  mourners  weep,  where  lovers  woo, 
From  throne  to  cottage  hearth  ? 

What  sweet  tears  dim  the  eye  unshed, 

What  wild  vows  falter  on  the  tongue, 
When  "  Scots  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled," 

Or  "  Auld  Lang  Syne  "  is  sung  ? 

Pure  hopes,  that  lift  the  soul  above, 
Come  with  his  Cotter's  hymn  of  praise, 

And  dreams  of  youth  and  truth  and  love, 
With  "  Logan's  "  banks  and  braes. 

And  when  he  breathes  his  master-lay 

Of  Alloway's  witch-haunted  wall, 
All  passions  in  our  frames  of  clay 

Come  thronging  at  his  call. 

Imagination's  world  of  air, 

And  our  own  world,  its  gloom  and  glee, 
Wit,  pathos,  poetry,  are  there, 

And  death's  sublimity. 

And  Burns  —  though  brief  the  race  he  ran, 
Though  rough  and  dark  the  path  he  trod  — 

Lived,  died,  in  form  and  soul  a  Man, 
The  image  of  his  God. 


334  BURNS. 

Through  care  and  pain,  and  want  and  woe, 
With  wounds  that  only  death  could  heal, 

Tortures  the  poor  alone  can  know, 
The  proud  alone  can  feel, 

He  kept  his  honesty  and  truth, 
His  independent  tongue  and  pen, 

And  moved,  in  manhood  as  in  youth, 
Pride  of  his  fellow-men. 

Strong  sense,  deep  feeling,  passions  strong, 

A  hate  of  tyrant  and  of  knave, 
A  love  of  right,  a  scorn  of  wrong, 

Of  coward  and  of  slave ; 

A  kind,  true  heart ;  a  spirit  high, 

That  could  not  fear,  and  would  not  bow,  — 

Were  written  in  his  manly  eye 
And  on  his  manly  brow. 

Such  graves  as  his  are  pilgrim-shrines, 
Shrines  to  no  code  or  creed  confined,  — 

The  Delphian  vales,  the  Palestines, 
The  Meccas,  of  the  mind. 

Sages,  with  wisdom's  garland  wreathed, 

Crowned  kings,  and  mitred  priests  of  power, 

And  warriors  with  their  bright  swords  sheathed, 
The  mightiest  of  the  hour; 

And  lowlier  names,  whose  humble  home 
Is  lit  by  Fortune's  dimmer  star, 

Are  there  —  o'er  wave  and  mountain  come, 
From  countries  near  and  far ; 


A   FAREWELL    TO  AGASSI Z.  335 

Pilgrims  whose  wandering  feet  have  pressed 

The  Switzer's  snow,  the  Arab's  sand, 
Or  trod  the  piled  leaves  of  the  West, 

My  own  green  forest-land. 

All  ask  the  cottage  of  his  birth, 

Gaze  on  the  scenes  he  loved  and  sung, 

And  gather  feelings  not  of  earth 
His  fields  and  streams  among. 

HALLECK. 


A   FAREWELL   TO   AGASSIZ. 

How  the  mountains  talked  together, 

Looking  down  upon  the  weather, 

When  they  heard  our  friend  had  planned  his 

Little  trip  among  the  Andes  ! 

How  they  11  bare  their  snowy  scalps 

To  the  climber  of  the  Alps 

When  the  cry  goes  through  their  passes, 

"  Here  comes  the  great  Agassiz  ! " 

"  Yes,  I  'ui  tall,"  says  Chimborazo, 

"  But  I  wait  for  him  to  say  so,  — 

That 's  the  only  thing  that  lacks,  —  he 

Must  see  me,  Cotopaxi !  " 

"Ay,  ay,"  the  fire  peak  thunders, 

"  And  he  must  view  my  wonders  ! 

I  'm  but  a  lonely  crater 

Till  I  have  him  for  spectator." 

The  mountain  hearts  are  yearning, 

The  lava-torches  burning, 

The  rivers  bend  to  meet  him, 

The  forests  bow  to  greet  him, 


336  A  FAREWELL    TO  AGASSIZ. 

It  thrills  the  spinal  column 
Of  fossil  fishes  solemn, 
And  glaciers  crawl  the  faster 
To  the  feet  of  their  old  master. 

Heaven  keep  him  well  and  hearty, 
Both  him  and  all  his  party ! 
From  the  sun  that  broils  and  smites, 
From  the  centipede  that  bites, 
From  the  hail-storm  and  the  thunder, 
From  the  vampire  and  the  condor, 
From  the  gust  upon  the  river, 
From  the  sudden  earthquake-shiver, 
From  the  trip  of  mule  or  donkey, 
From  the  midnight-howling  monkey, 
From  the  stroke  of  knife  or  dagger, 
From  the  puma  and  the  jaguar, 
From  the  horrid  boa-constrictor 
That  has  scared  us  in  the  pictur', 
From  the  Indians  of  the  Pampas 
Who  would  dine  upon  their  gran'pas, 
From  every  beast  and  vermin 
That  to  think  of  sets  us  squirming, 
From  every  snake  that  tries  on 
The  traveller  his  p'ison, 
From  every  pest  of  natur', 
Likewise  the  alligator, 
And  from  two  things  left  behind  him, 
(Be  sure  they  '11  try  to  find  him,) 
The  tax  bill  and  assessor,  — 
Heaven  keep  the  great  Professor ! 
May  he  find,  with  his  apostles, 
That  the  land  is  full  of  fossils, 
That  the  waters  swarm  with  fishes 


A   FAREWELL    TO  AGASSIZ.  337 

Shaped  according  to  his  wishes, 
That  every  pool  is  fertile 
In  fancy  kinds  of  turtle, 
New  birds  around  him  singing, 
New  insects,  never  stinging, 
With  a  million  novel  data 
About  the  articulata, 
And  facts  that  strip  off  all  husks 
From  the  history  of  mollusks. 

And  when,  with  loud  Te  Deum, 
He  returns  to  his  Museum, 
May  he  find  the  monstrous  reptile 
That  so  long  the  land  has  kept  ill 
By  Grant  and  Sherman  throttled, 
And  by  Father  Abraham  bottled, 
(All  specked  and  streaked  and  mottled 
With  the  scars  of  murderous  battles, 
Where  he  clashed  the  iron  rattles 
That  gods  and  men  he  shook  at,) 
For  all  the  world  to  look  at. 

God  bless  the  great  Professor ! 
And  Madam,  too,  God  bless  her ! 
Bless  him  and  all  his  band, 
On  the  sea  and  on  the  land, 
Bless  them  head  and  heart  and  hand, 
Till  their  glorious  raid  is  o'er, 
And  they  touch  our  ransomed  shore ! 
Then  the  welcome  of  a  nation, 
With  its  shout  of  exultation, 
Shall  awake  the  dumb  creation, 
And  the  shapes  of  buried  aeons 
Join  the  living  creatures'  pseans, 
Till  the  fossil  echoes  roar  ; 

22 


338  RED  JACKET. 

While  the  mighty  megalosaurus 
Leads  the  palaeozoic  chorus,  — 
God  bless  the  great  Professor, 
And  the  land  his  proud  possessor,  — 

Bless  them  now  and  evermore ! 
1865.  HOLMES. 

This  brings  up  vividly  his  genial  face,  as  well  as  that  of  the  poet,  who  always 
met  and  always  enjoyed  each  other  at  our  Club,  where  also  the  discussions  between 
Agassiz  and  Jeffries  Wyman  —  master  spirits,  who  took  diametrically  opposite 
grounds  upon  the  Darwinian  theory  —  were  specially  notable. 


RED   JACKET. 

A    CHIEF    OF    THE    TUSCARORAS,    ON    LOOKING    AT    HIS    PORTRAIT 

BY    WEIR. 


WHO  will  believe  that,  with  a  smile  whose  blessing 
Would,  like  the  patriarch's,  soothe  a  dying  hour ; 

With  voice  as  low,  as  gentle,  and  caressing, 
As  e'er  won  maiden's  lip  in  moonlight  bower; 

With  look,  like  patient  Job's,  eschewing  evil ; 

With  motions  graceful  as  a  bird's  in  air,  — 
Thou  art,  in  sober  truth,  the  veriest  devil 

That  e'er  clenched  fingers  in  a  captive's  hair ! 

That  in  thy  breast  there  springs  a  poison  fountain, 
Deadlier  than  that  where  bathes  the  Upas-tree ; 

And  in  thy  wrath  a  nursing  cat-o'-mountain 

Is  calm  as  her  babe's  sleep  compared  with  thee ! 

And  underneath  that  face,  like  summer  ocean's, 
Its  lip  as  moveless,  and  its  cheek  as  clear, 

Slumbers  a  whirlwind  of  the  heart's  emotions,  — 
Love,  hatred,  pride,  hope,  sorrow,  —  all  save  fear : 


SAADI  AND    THE  DERVISH.  339 

Love  —  for  thy  land,  as  if  she  were  thy  daughter, 
Her  pipe  in  peace,  her  tomahawk  in  wars ; 

Hatred  —  of  missionaries  and  cold  water ; 
Pride  —  in  thy  rifle-trophies  and  thy  scars  ; 

Hope  —  that  thy  wrongs  may  be,  by  the  Great  Spirit, 
Eemembered  and  revenged  when  thou  art  gone ; 

Sorrow  —  that  none  are  left  thee  to  inherit 

Thy  name,  thy  fame,  thy  passions,  and  thy  throne ! 

HALLECK. 

SAADI   AND   THE  DERVISH. 

THE  Dervish  whined  to  Said, 

"  Thou  didst  not  tarry  while  I  prayed." 

But  Saadi  answered : 

"  Once  with  manlike  hope  and  fear 

I  gave  thee  for  an  hour  my  ear ; 

I  kept  the  sun  and  stars  at  bay, 

And  love,  for  words  thy  tongue  could  say. 

I  cannot  sell  my  heaven  again 

For  all  that  rattles  in  thy  brain." 

Said  Saadi :  "  When  I  stood  before 
Hassan  the  camel-driver's  door, 
I  scorned  the  fame  of  Timour  brave, 
Timour  to  Hassan  was  a  slave ; 
In  every  glance  of  Hassan's  eye 
.  I  read  great  years  of  victory  : 
And  I,  who  cower  mean  and  small 
In  the  'frequent  interval 
When  wisdom  not  with  me  resides, 
Worship  toil's  wisdom  that  abides. 
I  shunned  his  eyes,  that  faithful  man's  ; 
I  shunned  the  toiling  Hassan's  glance." 

EMERSON,  Fragments  on  the  Poet. 


340  STORY  OF  A   BRIDGE. 


STOEY   OF  A  BEIDGE. 

A  BOY  sat  at  my  feet, 

With  his  head  upon  my  knee. 
His  face  was  fair  and  sweet, 

And  into  the  fire  looked  he. 

I  read  him  the  famous  story, 

In  English  verses  told, 
How  Horatius  kept  the  bridge 

In  the  brave  days  of  old. 

"  Now  tell  me  another  story 
Of  some  brave  man  you  know ; 

For  I  like  to  hear  of  those  great  deeds 
Which  men  did  long  ago." 

"And  many  other  noble  deeds 
Have  been  at  bridges  done ; 

And  if  you  are  not  tired,  I  think 
That  I  can  tell  you  one. 

"  A  story  not  of  war  and  blood, 

But  of  a  deed  as  brave 
As  his  who  leaped  into  the  flood 

And'  swam  across  the  wave. 

"  'Twas  at  the  end  of  winter 
In  the  North  Windsor  town, 

Where  the  broad  Connecticut  River 
From  the  hills  comes  flowing  down. 

And  two  strong  wooden  bridges 
Provide  safe  way  across,  — 

One  for  the  speeding  railway  train, 
And  one  for  foot  and  horse. 


STORY  OF  A    BRIDGE.  341 

The  ice,  as  firm  as  marble 

Through  all  the  winter's  cold, 
Now  in  the  sunny  southern  winds 

Had  loosed  its  clinging  hold, 

And  from  its  northern  winter  forts 

Came  rolling  thundering  /down, 
Like  an  army  of  the  winter  king, 

Till  it  came  to  Windsor  town. 

And  there  with  force  and  fury, 

Like  the  giant's  war  of  rocks, 
It  broke  along  the  wide  foot-bridge 

With  strong  resistless  shocks  ; 

And  drove  the  timbers  downward, 

In  its  relentless  way, 
Till  pressed  against  the  railroad  bridge 

They  for  a  moment  stay. 

The  people  stand  upon  the  bank 

And  watch  with  breathless  fear  ; 
For  they  know  the  train  from  the  other  side 

Is  swiftly  coming  near, 

And  unless  a  warning  signal 

Can  be  sent  to  let  them  know, 
They  will  rush  right  down  into  the  flood, 

For  the  bridge  is  sure  to  go. 

But  who  will  dare  to  cross  it 

While  it  quivers  with  the  strain 
Of  the  timbers  and  the  dashing  ice, 

Coming  down  on  it  amain  ? 


342  STORY  OF  A   BRIDGE. 

Some  were  fathers  and  mothers, 
With  children  waiting  at  home ;      , 

Some  were  young  men  unwedded, 
And  blooming  maidens  some. 

Then  outspoke  a  lad  of  eighteen  years, 
And  his  name  it  was  Hayes  Brown ; 

"  I  will  take  a  lantern  and  run  across, 
And  stop  them  at  Cornish  town." 

No  time  to  lose,  —  away  he  goes, 

From  beam  to  beam  he  springs, 
And  sets  his  foot  on  the  Cornish  shore, 

And  turns  and  his  lantern  swings. 

And  at  that  instant,  with  a  crash, 

The  railway  bridge  goes  down ; 
Its  last  strength  spent,  but  not  in  vain 

Had  it  carried  the  brave  Hayes  Brown. 

It  was  many  years  ago, 

And  I  know  "not  if  this  be  true  ; 
But  they  say  that  Mary  was  on  the  train, 

And  they  think  that  her  sweetheart  knew. 
Dec.  31,  1877.  ELIZABETH  HOAR. 

Read  by  R.  "W.  E.  on  a  New  Year's  night  at  MILTON.     Would  that  we  had  more 
from  the  same  gifted  pen  ! 


CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING   TO-NIGHT.  343 


CUKFEW   MUST   NOT   RING  TO-NIGHT. 

ENGLAND'S  sun  was  slowly  setting  o'er  the  hill-tops  far  away, 
Filling  all  the  land  with  beauty  at  the  close  of  one  sad  day ; 
And  its  last  rays  kissed  the  forehead  of  a  man  and  maiden 

fair,  — 

He  with  steps  so  slow  and  weary,  she  with  sunny  floating  hair ; 
He  with  bowed  head,  sad  and  thoughtful ;  she  with  lips  so  cold 

and  white, 

Struggled  to  keep  back  the  murmur,— 
"  Curfew  must  not  ring  to-night." 

"  Sexton,"  Bessie's  white  lips  faltered,  pointing  to  the  prison  old, 
With  its  turrets  tall  and  gloomy,  moss-grown  walls  dark,  damp, 

and  cold,  — 

"  I  Ve  a  lover  in  that  prison,  doomed  this  very  night  to  die, 
At  the  ringing  of  the  curfew ;  and  no  earthly  help  is  nigh. 
Cromwell  will  not  come  till  sunset,"  and  her  lips  grew  strangely 

white, 
As  she  spoke  in  husky  whispers,  — 

"Curfew  must  not  ring  to-night.' 

"  Bessie,"  calmly  spoke  the  sexton  (every  word  pierced  her  young 
heart 

Like  a  gleaming  death-winged  arrow,  like  a  deadly  poisoned 
dart), 

"  Long,  long  years  I  've  rung  the  curfew  from  that  gloomy,  shad- 
owed tower ; 

Every  evening,  just  at  sunset,  it  has  told  the  twilight  hour. 

I  have  done  my  duty  ever,  tried  to  do  it  just  and  right; 

Now  I  'm  old  I  will  not  miss  it. 

Curfew-bell  must  ring  to-night." 


344  CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING    TO-NIGHT. 

Wild  her  eyes  and  pale  her  features,  stern  and  white  her  thought- 
ful hrow ; 

And  within  her  heart's  deep  centre  Bessie  made  a  solemn  vow. 
She  had  listened  while  the  judges  read,  without  a  tear  or  sigh,  — 
"At  the  ringing  of  the  curfew  Basil  Underwood  must  die." 
And  her  hreath  came  fast  and  faster,  and  her  eyes  grew  large  and 

bright ; 
One  low  murmur,  faintly  spoken,  — 

"  Curfew  must  not  ring  to-night." 

She  with  quick  step  bounded  forward,  sprang  within  the  old 

church  door, 

Left  the  old  man  coming  slowly  paths  he  'd  trod  so  oft  before. 
Not  one  moment  paused  the  maiden,  but  with  cheek  and  brow 

aglow, 
Staggered  up  the  gloomy  tower,  where  the  bell  swung  to  and 

fro ; 
Then  she  climbed  the  slimy  ladder  on  which  fell  no  ray  of 

light, 

Up,  upward  still,  her  pale  lips  saying, 
"  Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night." 

She  has  reached  the  topmost  ladder,  o'er  her  hangs  the  great, 

dark  bell ; 
Awful  is  the  gloom  beneath,  her,  like  the  pathway  down  to 

hell. 
See !  the  ponderous  tongue  is  swinging ;  't  is  the  hour  of  curfew 

now, 
Arid  the  sight  has  chilled  her  bosom,  stopped  her  breath,  and 

paled  her  brow. 
Shall  she  let  it  ring  ?     No,  never !     Her  eyes  flash  with  sudden 

light, 
As  she  springs,  and  grasps  it  firmly : 

"  Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night." 


CURFEW  MUST  NOT  RING    TO-NIGHT.  345 

Out  she  swung,  far  out,  —  the  city  seemed  a  speck  of  light 

below,  — 
There  'twixt  heaven  and  earth  suspended,  as  the  bell  swung  to 

and  fro. 

And  the  sexton  at  the  bell-rope,  old  and  deaf,  heard  not  the  bell, 
But  he  thought  it  still  was  ringing  fair  young  Basil's  funeral 

knell. 
Still  the  maiden,  clinging  firmly,  quivering  lip  and  fair  face 

white, 
Stilled  her  frightened  heart's  wild  beating,  — 

"  Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night  !  " 

It  was  o'er,  the  bell  ceased  swaying ;  and  the  maiden  stepped 

once  more 

Firmly  on  the  damp  old  ladder,  where,  for  hundred  years  before, 
Human  foot  had  not  been  planted.    The  brave  deed  that  she  had 

done 

Should  be  told  in  long  years  after,  —  as  the  rays  of  setting  sun 
Light  the  sky  witli  mellow  beauty,  aged  sires,  with  heads  of 

white, 
Tell  the  children  why -the  curfew 

Did  not  ring  that  one  sad  night. 

O'er  the  distant  hills  came  Cromwell.    Bessie  sees  him ;  and  her 

brow, 

Lately  white  with  sickening  terror,  has  no  anxious  traces  now. 
At  his  feet  she  tells  her  story,  shows  her  hands  all  bruised  and 

torn; 
And  her  sweet  young  face,  still  haggard  with  the  anguish  it  had 

worn, 

Touched  his  heart  with  sudden  pity,  lit  his  eyes  with  misty  light  : 
"  Go  !  your  lover  lives,"  cried  Cromwell, 
"  Curfew  shall  not  ring  to-night ! " 

ROSA  HARTWICK  THORPE. 


346  VOLUNTARIES. 


VOLUNTARIES. 


Low  and  mournful  be  the  strain, 

Haughty  thought  be  far  from  me : 
Tones  of  penitence  and  pain, 

Moanings  of  the  tropic  sea : 
Low  and  tender  in  the  cell 

Where  a  captive  sits  in  chains, 
Crooning  ditties  treasured  well 

From  his  Afric's  torrid  plains. 
Sole  estate  his  sire  bequea'thed  — 

Hapless  sire  to  hapless  son  — 
Was  the  wailing  song  he  breathed, 

And  his  chain  when  life  was  done. 

What  his  fault,  or  what  his  crime  ? 
Or  what  ill  planet  crossed  his- prime  ? 
Heart  too  soft  a.nd  will  too  weak 

To  front  the  fate  that  crouches  near,  — 
Dove  beneath  the  vulture's  Hbeak  : 

Will  song  dissuade  the  thirsty  spear  ? 
Dragged  from  his  mother's  arms  and  breast, 

Displaced,  disfurnished  here, 
His  wistful  toil  to  do  his  best 

Chilled  by  a  ribald  jeer. 
Great  men  in  the  senate  sate, 

Sage  and  hero  side  by  side, 
Building  for  their  sons  the  State, 

Which  they  shall  rule  with  pride. 
They  forbore  to  break  the  chain 


VOLUNTARIES.  347 

Checked  by  the  owners'  fierce  disdain, 

Lured  by  "  Union  "  as  the  bribe. 
Destiny  sat  by  and  said, 

"  Pang  for  pang  your  seed  shall  pay, 
Hide  in  false  peace  your  coward  head, 

I  bring  round  the  harvest  day." 


II. 


Freedom  all  winged  expands, 

Nor  perches  in  a  narrow  place : 
Her  broad  van  seeks  unplanted  lands ; 

She  loves  a  poor  and  virtuous  race. 
Clinging  to  a  colder  zone, 
Whose  dark  sky  shakes  the  snow-flake  down, 
The  snow-flake  is  her  banner's  star, 
Her  stripes  the  boreal  streamers  are. 
Long,  she  loved  the  Northman  well : 

Now  the  iron  age  is  done, 
She  will  not  refuse  to  dwell 

With  the  offspring  of  the  sun : 
Foundling  of  the  desert  far, 

Where  palms  plume,  siroccos  blaze, 

He  roves  unhurt  the  burning  ways 
In  climates  of  the  summer  star. 
He  has  avenues  to  God 

Hid  from  men  of  Northern  brain, 
Far  beholding,  without  cloud, 

What  these  with  slowest  steps  attain. 
If  once  the  generous  chief  arrive 

To  lead  him  willing  to  be  led, 
For  freedom  he  will  strike  and  strive, 

And  drain  his  heart  till  he  be  dead. 


348  VOLUNTARIES. 

III. 

In  an  age  of  fops  and  toys, 

Wanting  wisdom,  void  of  right, 
Who  shall  nerve  heroic  boys 

To  hazard  all  in  freedom's  fight,  — 
Break  sharply  off  their  jolly  games, 

Forsake  their  comrades  gay, 
And  quit  proud  homes  and  youthful  dames, 

For  famine,  toil,  and  fray  ? 
Yet  on  the  nimble  air  benign 

Speed  nimbler  messages, 
That  Waft  the  breath  of  grace  divine 

To  hearts  in  sloth  and  ease. 
So  nigh  is  grandeur  to  our  dust, 

So  near  is  God  to  man, 
When  duty  whispers  low,  Thou  must, 

The  youth  replies,  /  can. 

i 

IV. 

Oh,  well  for  the  fortunate  soul 

Which  music's  wings  infold, 
Stealing  away  the  memory 

Of  sorrows  new  and  old  ! 
Yet  happier  he  whose  inward  sight, 

Stayed  on  his  subtile  thought, 
Shuts  his  sense  on  joys  of  time, 

To  vacant  bosoms  brought. 
But  best  befriended  of  the  God 
He  who,  in  evil  times, 
Warned  by  an  inward  voice, 

Heeds  not  the  darkness  and  the  dread, 
Biding  by  his  rule  and  choice, 

Feeling  only  the  fiery  thread 


VOLUNTARIES.  349 

Which  bound  the  dusky  tribe, 

Leading  over  heroic  ground, 

Walled  with  mortal  terror  round, 

To  the  aim  which  him  allures, 

And  the  sweet  heaven  his  deed  secures. 

Peril  around  all  else  appalling, 

Cannon  in  front  and  leaden  rain, 
Him  duty  through  the  clarion  calling 

To  the  van  called  not  in  vain. 

Stainless  soldier l  on  the  walls, 

Knowing  this,  —  and  knows  no  more,  — 
Whoever  fights,  whoever  falls, 

Justice  conquers  evermore, 

Justice  after  as  before,  — 
And  he  who  battles  on  her  side, 

God,  though  he  were  ten  times  slain, 
Crowns  him  victor  glorified, 

Victor  over  death  and  pain ; 
Forever  :  but  his  erring  foe, 

Self-assured  that  he  prevails, 
Looks  from  his  victim  lying  low, 
And  sees  aloft  the  red  right  arm 

Redress  the  eternal  scales. 
He,  the  poor  foe,  whom  angels  foil, 

Blind  with  pride,  and  fooled  by  hate, 
Writhes  within  the  dragon  coil, 

Reserved  to  a  speechless  fate. 

v. 
Blooms  the  laurel  which  belongs 

To  the  valiant  chief  who  fights  : 
I  see  the  wreath,  I  hear  the  songs 
Lauding  the  Eternal  Rights, 
1  Colonel  R.  G.  S. 


350  THE  FIELD   OF   THE   GROUNDED  ARMS. 

Victors  over  daily  wrongs  : 

Awful  victors,  they  misguide 
Whom  they  will  destroy, 

And  their  coming  triumph  hide 
In  our  downfall  or  our  joy  ; 

They  reach  no  term,  they  never  sleep, 
In  equal  strength  through  space  abide : 

Though  feigning  dwarfs,  they  crouch  and  creep, 
The  strong  they  slay,  the  swift  outstride : 

Fate's  grass  grows  rank  in  valley  clods, 
And  rankly  on  the  castled  steep,  — 

Speak  it  firmly,  these  are  gods, 


All  are  ghosts  beside. 


EMERSON. 


THE   FIELD   OF  THE   GEOUNDED   ARMS. 

SARATOGA. 

A  FOE  is  heard  in  every  rustling  leaf, 
A  fortress  seen  in  every  rock  and  tree, 

The  eagle  eye  of  art 

Is  dim  and  powerless  then. 

And  war  becomes  a  people's  joy,  the  drum 
Man's  merriest  music,  and  the  field  of  death 

His  couch  of  happy  dreams, 

After  life's  harvest  home. 

He  battles  heart  and  arm,  his  own  blue  sky 
Above  him,  and  his  own  green  land  around,  — 
Land  of  his  father's  grave, 
His  blessing  and  his  prayers,  — 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  WILLIAM  HOWARD  ALLEN.       351 

Land  where  he  learned  to  lisp  a  mother's  name, 
The  first  beloved  in  life,  the  last  forgot,  — 

Land  of  his  frolic  youth, 

Land  of  his  bridal  eve,  — 

Land  of  his  children  —  vain  your  columned  strength, 
Invaders !  vain  your  battles'  steel  and  fire  ! 

Choose  ye  the  morrow's  doom,  — 

A  prison  or  a  grave. 

HALLECK. 


ON   THE    DEATH   OF   WILLIAM   HOWAED   ALLEN, 

LIEUTENANT   OF   THE   AMERICAN   NAVY. 

HE  hath  been  mourned  as  brave  men  mourn  the  brave, 

And  wept  as  nations  weep  their  cherished  dead, 

With  bitter,  but  proud  tears ;  and  o'er  his  head 

The  eternal  flowers  whose  root  is  in  the  grave, 

The  flowers  of  Fame,  are  beautiful  and  green ; 

And  by  his  grave's  side  pilgrim  feet  have  been, 

And  blessings,  pure  as  men  to  martyrs  give, 

Have  there  been  breathed  by  those  he  died  to  save. 

—  Pride  of  his  country's  banded  chivalry, 

His  fame  their  hope,  his  name  their  battle-cry, 

He  lived  as  mothers  wish  their  sons  to  live, 

He  died  as  fathers  wish  their  sons  to  die. 

If  on  the  grief-worn  cheek  the  hues  of  bliss, 

Which  fade  when  all  we  love  is  in  the  tomb, 

Could  ever  know  on  earth  a  second  bloom, 

The  memory  of  a  gallant  deed  like  his 

Would  call  them  into  being ;  but  the  few 

Who  as  their  friend,  their  brother,  or  their  son, 


352  THE  ANGELS   OF  BUENA    VISTA. 

His  kind  warm  heart  and  gentle  spirit  knew, 

Had  long  lived,  hoped,  and  feared  for  him  alone ; 

His  voice  their  morning  music,  and  his  eye 

The  only  starlight  of  their  evening  sky, 

Till  even  the  sun  of  happiness  seemed  dim, 

And  life's  best  joys  were  sorrows  but  with  him ; 

And  when,  the  burning  bullet  in  his  breast, 

He  dropped,  like  summer  fruit  from  off  the  bough, 

There  was  one  heart  that  knew  and  loved  him  best,  — 

It  was  a  mother's  —  and  is  broken  now. 

HALLECK. 


THE   ANGELS   OF   BUENA   VISTA. 

SPEAK  and  tell  us,  our  Ximena,  looking  northward  far  away, 
O'er  the  camp  of  the  invaders,  o'er  the  Mexican  array, 
Who  is  losing?  who  is  winning?  are  they  far,  or  come  they  near 
Look  abroad,  and  tell  us,  sister,  whither  rolls  the  storm  we  hear. 

"  Down  the  hills  of  Angostura  still  the  storm  of  battle  rolls ; 
Blood  is  flowing,  men  are  dying;  God  have  mercy  on  their  souls !" 
Who  is  losing  ?  who  is  winning  ?     "  Over  hill  and  over  plain, 
I  see  but  smoke  of  cannon  clouding  through  the  mountain  rain." 

Holy  Mother !  keep  our  brothers  !  Look,  Ximena,  look  once  more. 
"  Still  I  see  the  fearful  whirlwind  rolling  darkly  as  before, 
Bearing  on,  in  strange  confusion,  friend  and  foeman,  foot  and 

horse, 
Like  some  wild  and  troubled  torrent  sweeping  down  its  mountain 

course." 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena !     "  Ah !  the  smoke  has  rolled 

away ; 
And  I  see  the  Northern  rifles  gleaming  down  the  ranks  of  gray. 


THE  ANGELS   OF  BUENA    VISTA.  353 

Hark !  that  sudden  blast  of  bugles !  there  the  troop  of  Minon 

wheels ; 
There  the  Northern  horses  thunder,  with  the  cannon  at  their 

heels. 

"  Jesu,  pity !  how  it  thickens  !  now  retreat  and  now  advance ! 
Eight  against  the  blazing  cannon  shivers  Puebla's  charging  lance. 
Down  they  go,  the  brave  young  riders ;  horse  and  foot  together 

fall: 
Like  a  ploughshare  in  the  fallow,  through  them  ploughs  the 

Northern  ball." 

Nearer  came  the  storm  and  nearer,  rolling  fast  and  frightful  on : 
Speak,  Xiinena,  speak  and  tell  us,  who  has  lost  and  who  has  won? 
"  Alas  !  alas  !  I  know  not ;  friend  and  foe  together  fall, 

0  'er  the  dying  rush  the  living ;  pray,  my  sisters,  for  them  all ! 

"  Lo !  the  wind  the  smoke  is  lifting :    Blessed  Mother,  save  my 
brain ! 

1  can  see  the  wounded  crawling  slowly  out  from  heaps  of  slain. 
Now  they  stagger,  blind  and  bleeding ;  now  they  fall,  and  strive 

to  rise ; 
Hasten,  sisters,  haste  and  save  them,  lest  they  die  before  our  eyes. 

"  O  my  heart's  love  !  0  my  dear  one  !  lay  thy  poor  head  on  my 

knee :  r 

Dost  thou  know  the  lips  that  kiss  thee  ?  canst  thou  hear  me  ? 

canst  thou  see  ? 

0  my  husband,  brave  and  gentle  !  0  my  Bernal,  look  once  more 
On  the  blessed  cross  before  thee  !  Mercy  !  mercy  !  all  is  o'er." 

Dry  thy  tears,  my  poor  Ximena;  lay  thy  dear  one  down  to  rest; 
Let  his  hands  be  meekly  folded,  lay  the  cross  upon  his  breast ; 
Let  his  dirge  be  sung  hereafter,  and  his  funeral  masses  said ; 
To-day,  thou  poor  bereaved  one,  the  living  ask  thy  aid. 

23 


354  THE  ANGELS   OF  BUENA    VISTA. 

Close  beside  her,  faintly  moaning,  fair  and  young,  a  soldier  lay, 
Torn  with  shot  and  pierced  with  lances,  bleeding  slow  his  life 

away ; 

But,  as  tenderly  before  him  the  lorn  Ximena  knelt, 
She  saw  the  Northern  eagle  shining  on  his  pistol  belt. 

With  a  stifled  cry  of  horror  straight  she  turned  away  her  head ; 
With  a  sad  and  bitter  feeling  looked  she  back  upon  her  dead : 
But  she  heard  the  youth's  low  moaning,  and  his  struggling  breath 

of  pain, 
And  she  raised  the  cooling  water  to  his  parching  lips  again. 

Whispered  low  the  dying  soldier,  pressed  her  hand  and  faintly 

smiled : 
Was  that  pitying  face  his  mother's  ?  did  she  watch  beside  her 

child  ? 

All  his  stranger  words  with  meaning  her  woman's  heart  supplied ; 
With  her  kiss  upon  his  forehead,  "  Mother ! "  murmured  he,  and 

died. 

"  A  bitter  curse  upon  them,  poor  boy,  who  led  thee  forth 
From  some  gentle,  sad-eyed  mother,  weeping  lonely  in  the  North ! " 
Spake  the  mournful  Mexic  woman,  as  she  laid  him  with  her 

dead, 
And  turned  to  soothe  the  living,  and  bind  the  wounds  which 

bled. 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena !  "  Like  a  cloud  before  the  wind 
Eolls  the  battle  down  the  mountains,  leaving  blood  and  death 

behind ; 
Ah!  they  plead  in  vain  for  mercy;  in  the 'dust  the  wounded 

strive ; 
Hide  your  faces,  holy  angels  !  0  thou  Christ  of  God,  forgive ! " 


MARCO  BOZZARIS.  355 

Sink,  O  Night,  among  thy  mountains !  let  the  cool,  gray  shad- 
ows fall ; 

Dying  brothers,  fighting  demons,  drop  thy  curtain  over  all ! 

Through  the  thickening  winter  twilight,  wide  apart  the  battle 
rolled, 

In  its  sheath  the  sabre  rested,  and  the  cannon's  lips  grew  cold. 

But  the  noble  Mexic  women  still  their  holy  task  pursued, 
Through  that  long,  dark  night  of  sorrow,  worn  and  faint  and 

lacking  food ; 

Over  weak  and  suffering  brothers,  with  a  tender  care  they  hung, 
And  the  dying  foeman  blessed  them  in  a  strange  and  Northern 

tongue. 

Not  wholly  lost,  O  Father,  is  this  evil  world  of  ours ; 

Upward,  through  its  blood  and  ashes,  spring  afresh  the  Eden 

flowers ; 

From  its  smoking  hell  of  battle  Love  and  Pity  send  their  prayer, 
And  still  thy  white-winged  angels  hover  dimly  in  our  air. 

WHITTIEE. 


MARCO   BOZZARIS. 

THEY  fought  —  like  brave  men,  long  and  well ; 

They  piled  the  ground  with  Moslem  slain  : 
They  conquered — but  Bozzaris  fell, 

Bleeding  at  every  vein. 
His  few  surviving  comrades  saw 
His  smile  when  rang  their  proud  hurrah, 

And  the  red  field  was  won  ; 
Then  saw  in  death  his  eyelids  close 
Calmly,  as  to  a  night's  repose, 

Like  flowers  at  set  of  sun. 


356  MARCO  BOZZARIS. 

Come  to  the  bridal  chamber,  Death ! 

Come  to  the  mother's,  when  she  feels, 
For  the  first  time,  her  first-born's  breath ; 

And  all  we  know,  or  .dream,  or  fear 
Of  agony,  are  thine. 

But  to  the  hero,  when  his  sword 

Has  won  the  battle  for  the  free, 
Thy  voice  sounds  like  a  prophet's  word ; 
And  in  its  hollow  tones  are  heard 

The  thanks  of  millions  yet  to  be. 
Come  when  his  task  of  fame  is  wrought ; 
Come  with  her  laurel-leaf,  blood-bought ; 

Come  in  her  crowning  hour,  and  then 
Thy  sunken  eye's  unearthly  light 
To  him  is  welcome  as  the  sight 

Of  sky  and  stars  to  prisoned  men : 
Thy  grasp  is  welcome  as  the  hand 
Of  brother  in  a  foreign  land ; 
Thy  summons  welcome  as  the  cry 
That -told  the  Indian  isles  were  nigh 

To  the  world-seeking  Genoese, 
When  the  land  wind,  from  woods  of  palm, 
And  orange  groves,  and  fields  of  balm, 

Blew  o'er  the  Haytian  seas. 

Bozzaris,  with  the  storied  brave 

Greece  nurtured  in  her  glory's  time, 

Eest  thee !  there  is  no  prouder  grave, 
Even  in  her  own  proud  clime. 

HALLECK. 


THE  DAMSEL   OF  PERU.  357 


THE  DAMSEL   OF   PERU. 

WHERE  olive-leaves  were  twinkling  in  every  wind  that  blew, 
There  sat  beneath  the  pleasant  shade  a  damsel  of  Peru. 
Betwixt  the  slender  boughs,  as  they  opened  to  the  air, 
Came  glimpses  of  her  ivory  neck  and  of  her  glossy  hair ; 
And  sweetly  rang  her  silver  voice,  within  that  shady  nook, 
As  from  the  shrubby  glen  is  heard  the  sound  of  hidden  brook. 

'T  is  a  song  of  love  and  valor,  in  the  noble  Spanish  tongue, 
That  once  upon  the  sunny  plains  of  old  Castile  was  sung ; 
When,  from  their  mountain  holds,  on  the  Moorish  rout  below, 
Had  rushed  the  Christians  like  a  flood,  and  swept  away  the  foe. 
Awhile  that  melody  is  still,  and  then  breaks  forth  anew 
A  wilder  rhyme,  a  livelier  note,  of  freedom  and  Peru. 

For  she  has  bound  the  sword  to  a  youthful  lover's  side, 
And  sent  him  to  the  war  the  day  she  should  have  been  his  bride, 
And  bade  him  bear  a  faithful  heart  to  battle  for  the  right, 
And  held  the  fountains  of  her  eyes  till  he  was  out  of  sight. 
Since  the  parting  kiss  was  given,  six  weary  months  are  fled, 
And  yet  the  foe  is  in  the  land,  and  blood  must  yet  be  shed, 

A  white  hand  parts  the  branches,  a  lovely  face  looks  forth, 
And  bright  dark  eyes  gaze  steadfastly  and  sadly  toward  the  north. 
Thou  look'st  in  vain,  sweet  maiden,  the  sharpest  sight  would  fail 
To  spy  a  sign  of  human  life  abroad  in  all  the  vale ; 
For  the  noon  is  coming  on,  and  the  sunbeams  fiercely  beat, 
And  the  silent  hills  and  forest-tops  seem  reeling  in  the  heat. 

That  white  hand  is  withdrawn,  that  fair,  sad  face  is  gone ; 
But  the  music  of  that  silver  voice  is  flowing  sweetly  on, 
Not  as  of  late,  in  cheerful  tones,  but  mournfully  and  low,  — 


358  THE   SNOW-STORM. 

A  ballad  of  a  tender  maid  heart-broken  long  ago, 

Of  him  who  died  in  battle,  the  youthful  and  the  brave, 

And  her  who  died  of  sorrow,  upon  his  early  grave. 

But  see,  along  that  mountain  slope,  a  fiery  horseman  ride ; 
Mark  his  torn  plume,  his  tarnished  belt,  the  sabre  at  his  side. 
His  spurs  are  buried  rowel-deep,  he  rides  with  loosened  rein, 
There 's  blood  upon  his  charger's  flank  and  foam  upon  the  mane ; 
He  speeds  him  toward  the  olive  grove,  along  that  shaded  hill : 
God  shield  the  helpless  maiden  there,  if  he  should  mean  her  ill 

And  suddenly  that  song  has  ceased,  and  suddenly  I  hear 
A  shriek  sent  up  amid  the  shade,  a  shriek  —  but  not  of  fear. 
For  tender  accents  follow,  and  tenderer  pauses  speak 
The  overflow  of  gladness,  when  words  are  all  too  weak : 
"  I  lay  my  good  sword  at  thy  feet,  for  now  Peru  is  free, 
And  I  am  come  to  dwell  beside  the  orange  grove  with  thee." 

BRYANT. 


THE   SNOW-STOKM. 

ANNOUNCED  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 
Arrives  the  snow ;  and,  driving  o'er  the  fields, 
Seems  nowhere  to  alight :   the  whited  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river,  and  the  heaven, 
And  veils  the  farrn-house  at  the  garden's  end. 
The  sled  and  traveller  stopped,  the  courier's  feet 
Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  housemates  sit 
Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  enclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm. 
Come  see  the  north-wind's  masonry  ! 
Out  of  an  unseen  quarry,  evermore 


MAGDALEN.  359 

Furnished  with  tile,  the  fierce  artificer 
Curves  his  white  bastions  with  projected  roof 
Round  every  windward  stake  or  tree  or  door ; 
Speeding,  the  myriad-handed,  his  wild  work 
So  fanciful,  so  savage ;  nought  cares  he 
For  number  or  proportion.     Mockingly, 
On  coop  or  kennel  he  hangs  Parian  wreaths  ; 
A  swan-like  form  invests  the  hidden  thorn  ; 
Fills  up  the  farmer's  lane  from  wall  to  wall, 
Maugre  the  farmer's  sighs  ;  and,  at  the  gate, 
A  tapering  turret  overtops  the  work. 
And  when  his  hours  are  numbered,  and  the  world 
Is  all  his  own,  retiring  as  he  were  not, 
Leaves,  when  the  sun  appears,  astonished  Art 
To  mimic  in  slow  structures,  stone  by  stone, 
Built  in  an  age,  the  mad  wind's  night-work, 
The  frolic  architecture  of  the  snow. 

EMERSON. 


MAGDALEN. 

IN  Greece,  the  brave  heart's  Holy  Land, 

Its  soldier-song  the  bugle  sings ; 
And  I  had  buckled  on  my  brand, 

And  waited  but  the  sea-wind's  wings, 
To  bear  me  where,  or  lost  or  won 

Her  battle,  in  its  frown  or  smile, 
Men  live  with  those  of  Marathon, 

Or  die  with  those  of  Scio's  isle ; 
And  find  in  Valor's  tent  or  tomb, 
In  life  or  .death,  a  glorious  home. 


360  MAGDALEN. 

I  could  have  left  but  yesterday 

The  scene  of  my  boy-years  behind, 
And  floated  on  my  careless  way 

Wherever  willed  the  breathing  wiiid. 
I  could  have  bade  adieu  to  aught 

I  Ve  sought  or  met  or  welcomed  here, 
Without  an  hour  of  shaded  thought, 

A  sigh,  a  murmur,  or  a  tear. 
Such  was  I  yesterday  —  but  then 
I  had  not  known  thee,  Magdalen. 


My  sword  —  it  slumbers  in  its  sheath  ; 

My  hopes  —  their  starry  light  is  gone  ; 
My  heart  —  the  fabled  clock  of  death 

Beats  with  the  same  low,  lingering  tone  ; 
And  this,  the  land  of  Magdalen, 

Seems  now  the  only  spot  on  earth 
Where  skies  are  blue  and  flowers  are  green  ; 

And  here  I  build  my  household  hearth, 
And  breathe  my  song  of  joy,  and  twine 
A  lovely  being's  name  with  mine. 

In  vain,  in  vain  !  the  sail  is  spread  ; 

To  sea,  to  sea  !  my  task  is  there ; 
But  when  among  the  unmourned  dead 

They  lay  me,  and  the  ocean  air 
Brings  tidings  of  my  day  of  doom, 

Mayst  thou  be  then,  as  now  thou  art, 
The  loadstar  of  a  happy  home ; 

In  smile  and  voice,  in  eye  and  heart, 
The  same  that  thou  hast  ever  been, 
The  loved,  the  lovely  Magdalen. 

HALLECK. 


GREEN  RIVER.  361 


GEEEN   ETVER 

WHEN  breezes  are  soft  and  skies  are  fair, 
I  steal  an  hour  from  study  and  care, 
And  hie  me  away  to  the  woodland  scene, 
Where  wanders  the  stream  with  waters  of  green, 
As  if  the  bright  fringe  of  herbs  on  its  brink 
Had  given  their  stain  to  the  wave  they  drink ; 
And  they  whose  meadows  it  murmurs  through, 
Have  named  the  stream  from  its  own  fair  hue. 

Yet  pure  its  waters  —  its  shallows  are  bright 

With  colored  pebbles  and  sparkles  of  light, 

And  clear  the  depths  where  its  eddies  play, 

And  dimples  deepen  and  whirl  away, 

And  the  plane-tree's  speckled  arms  o'ershoot 

The  swifter  current  that  mines  its  root, 

Through  whose  shifting  leaves,  as  you  walk  the  hill, 

The  quivering  glimmer  of  sun  and  rill 

With  a  sudden  flash  on  the  eye  is  thrown, 

Like  the  ray  that  streams  from  the  diamond-stone. 

Oh,  loveliest  there  the  spring  days  come, 

With  blossoms  and  birds,  and  wild  bees'  hum ; 

The  flowers  of  summer  are  fairest  there, 

And  freshest  the  breath  of  the  summer  air ; 

And  sweetest  the  golden  autumn  day 

In  silence  and  sunshine  glides  away. 

Yet  fair  as  thou  art,  thou  shunnest  to  glide, 
Beautiful  stream,  by  the  village  side ; 
But  windest  away  from  haunts  of  men, 
To  quiet  valley  and  shaded  glen ; 
And  forest,  and  meadow,  and  slope  of  hill, 


362  THE   OLD   OAKEN  BUCKET. 

Around  thee,  are  lonely,  lovely,  and  still,  — 
Lonely,  save  when,  by  thy  rippling  tides, 
From  thicket  to  thicket  the  angler  glides  ; 
Or  the  simpler  comes,  with  basket  and  book, 
For  herbs  of  power  on  thy  banks  to  look  ; 
Or  haply,  some  idle  dreamer,  like  me. 

BRYANT. 

THE   OLD   OAKEN   BUCKET. 

How  dear  to  this  heart  are  the  scenes  of  my  childhood, 

When  fond  recollection  presents  them  to  view  ! 
The  orchard,  the  meadow,  the  deep-tangled  wiklwood, 

And  every  loved  spot  which  my  infancy  knew ; 
The  wide-spreading  pond,  and  the  mill  which  stood  by  it 

The  bridge,  and  the  rock  where  the  cataract  fell ; 
The  cot  of  my  father,  the  dairy-house  nigh  it, 

And  e'en  the  rude  bucket  which  hung  in  the  well : 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 

The  moss-covered  bucket,  which  hung  in  the  well. 

That  moss-covered  vessel  I  hail  as  a  treasure ; 

For  often,  at  noon,  when  returned  from  the  field, 
I  found  it  the  source  of  an  exquisite  pleasure, 

The  purest  and  sweetest  that  nature  can  yield. 
How  ardent  I  seized  it,  with  hands  that  were  glowing, 

And  quick  to  the  white-pebbled  bottom  it  fell ; 
Then  soon,  with  the  emblem  of  truth  overflowing, 

And  dripping  with  coolness,  it  rose  from  the  well : 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 

The  moss-covered  bucket  arose  from  the  well. 

9 

How  sweet  from  the  green  mossy  brim  to  receive  it, 
As,  poised  on  the  curb,  it  inclined  to  my  lips ! 


CONNECTICUT.  363 

Not  a  full  blushing  goblet  could  tempt  me  to  leave  it, 

Though  filled  with  the  nectar  that  Jupiter  sips. 
And  now,  far  removed  from  the  loved  situation, 

The  tear  of  regret  will  intrusively  swell, 
As  fancy  reverts  to  my  father's  plantation, 

And  sighs  for  the  bucket  which  hangs  in  the  well : 
The  old  oaken  bucket,  the  iron-bound  bucket, 

The  moss-covered  bucket,  which  hangs  in  the  well. 

SAMUEL  WOODWOKTH. 
A  great  favorite  of  R.  B.  F.  when  he  was  young. 


CONNECTICUT. 

"  The  woods  in  which  we  had  dwelt  pleasantly  rustled  their  green  leaves  in  the 
son",  and  our  streams  were  there  with  the  sound  of  all  their  waters."  —  MONTKOSE. 


HERS  are  not  Tempe's  nor  Arcadia's  spring, 

Nor  the  long  summer  of  Cathayau  vales, 
The  vines,  the  flowers,  the  air,  the  skies,  that  fling 

Such  wild  enchantment  o'er  Boccaccio's  tales 
Of  Florence  and  the  Arno ;  yet  the  wing 

Of  life's  best  angel,  Health,  is  on  her  gales 
Through  sun  and  snow ;  and  in  the  autumn  time 
Earth  has  no  purer  and  no  lovelier  clime. 

Her  clear,  warm  heaven  at  noon,  —  the  mist  that  shrouds 
Her  twilight  hills,  her  cool  and  starry  eves, 

The  glorious  splendor  of  her  sunset  clouds, 
The  rainbow  beauty  of  her  forest  leaves, 

Come  o'er  the  eye,  in  solitude  and  crowds, 
Where'er  his  web  of  song  her  poet  weaves  ; 

And  his  mind's  brightest  vision  but  displays 

The  autumn  scenery  of  his  boyhood's  days. 


364  CRY  OF  EACH  PLANET'S  NIGHT. 

And  when  you  dream  of  woman,  and  her  love, 
Her  truth,  her  tenderness,  her  gentle  power; 

The  maiden  listening  in  the  moonlight  grove, 
The  mother  smiling  in  her  infant's  bower; 

Forms,  features  worshipped  while  we  breathe  or  move, 
Be  by  some  spirit  of  your  dreaming  hour 

Borne,  like  Loretto's  chapel,  through  the  air 

To  the  green  land  I  sing,  then  wake,  you  '11  find  them  there. 

HALLECK. 


CEY  OF  EACH  PLANET'S  NIGHT. 

FAK,  far  beyond  the  blazing  wanderer's  quest, 

Beyond  the  constellated  sphere's  array, 

Dreamless  of  us,  her  children,  here  oppressed 

With  circumscription  of  eternal  day, 

The  venerable  Darkness  lives  alway, 

Wrapt  in  her  own  dread  majesty  of  rest. 

Rest  —  rest  —  alas  !  there  is  no  rest  for  me, 

Though  to  a  weary  world  I  be  fts  giver. 

By  summer  and  by  spring,  by  land  and  sea, 

The  flaming  persecutor  clips  me  ever. 

When  will  the  silver  bow  exhaust  its  quiver  ? 

When  will  old  Darkness  come  and  set  me  free  ? 

Mother,  0  mother,  when  wilt  thou  deliver 

Thy  lone  child  from  this  fiery  agony  ? 

Quiet,  oh,  quiet  —  when  shall  I  belying 

Nowhere,  within  thy  peaceful  void  again, 

Evermore  drifting  down,  in  solemn  slumber, 

Where  never  star  gleamed  through  the  empty  main  ? 

Ascribed  to  E.  S.  H. 


HYMN   TO   THE  NIGHT.  365 


HYMN  TO  THE  NIGHT. 

I  HEARD  the  trailing  garments  of  the  Night 

Sweep  through  her  marble  halls ; 
I  saw  her  sable  skirts  all  fringed  with  light 

From  the  celestial  walls. 

I  felt  her  presence,  by  its  spell  of  might, 

Stoop  o'er  me  from  above ; 
The  calm,  majestic  presence  of  the  Night, 

As  of  the  one  I  love. 

I  heard  the  sounds  of  sorrow  and  delight, 

The  manifold,  soft  chimes, 
That  filled  the  haunted  chambers  of  the  Night, 

Like  some  old  poet's  rhymes. 

From  the  cool  cisterns  of  the  midnight  air 

My  spirit  drank  repose ; 
The  fountain  of  perpetual  peace  flows  there,  — 

From  those  deep  cisterns  flows. 

0  holy  Night !  from  thee  I  learn  to  bear 

What  man  has  borne  before. 
Thou  layest  thy  finger  on  the  lips  of  Care, 

And  they  complain  no  more. 

Peace  !  peace  !  Orestes-like  I  breathe  this  prayer. 

Descend  with  broad-winged  flight, 
The  welcome,  the  thrice-prayed  for,  the  most  fair, 

The  best-beloved  Night. 

LONGFELLOW. 


366  BRAHMA. 


MAHABHAEATA. 

(Translation  from  a  Hindoo  epic  poem  of  that  name,  composed  three  centuries 
before  the  Christian  era.) 


FOR  he  that  thinks  to  slay  the  soul,  or  he  that  thinks  the  soul 

is  slain, 

Are  fondly  both  alike  deceived :  it  is  not  slain,  it  slayeth  not : 
It  is  not  born,  it  doth  not  die ;  past,  present,  future,  knows  it 

not: 
Ancient,  eternal,  and  unchanged,  it  dies  not  'with  the  dying 

frame. 

Who  knows  it  incorruptible  and  everlasting  and  unborn, 
What  heeds  he  whether  he  may  slay,  or  fall  himself  in  battle 

slain  ?  ANONYMOUS. 


BEAHMA. 

(Undoubtedly  suggested  by  the  foregoing.) 

IF  the  red  slayer  think  he  slays, 
Or  if  the  slain  think  he  is  slain, 

They  know  not  well  the  subtle  ways 
I  keep,  and  pass,  and  turn  again. 

Far  or  forgot  to  me  is  near ; 

Shadow  and  sunlight  are  the  same. 
The  vanished  gods  to  me  appear ; 

And  one  to  me  are  shame  and  fame. 

They  reckon  ill  who  leave  me  out ; 

When  me  they  fly,  I  am  the  wings. 
I  am  the  doubter  and  the  doubt, 

And  I  the  hymn  the  Brahmin  sings. 


THE  BEGGAR.  367 

The  strong  gods  pine  for  my  abode, 

And  pine  in  vain  the  sacred  seven ; 
But  thou,  meek  lover  of  the  good ! 

Find  me,  and  turn  thy  back  on  heaven. 

EMERSON. 


MY   THOUGHTS. 

MY  thoughts  are  bound  within  a  cell  of  care, 
I  have  not  eye  nor  ear  which  strays  beyond ; 

The  overseer,  Time,  threats  and  will  not  spare, 
And  I  of  life  and  liberty  despond. 

Now  to  my  soul  a  vision  is  arrayed  : 

Far  trees  are  shivered  by  a  gentle  breeze ; 

The  blessed  moonlight  gleameth  through  their  shade, 
And  hearts  there  wander  forth  which  are  at  ease. 

Thou  passing  world,  it  well  was  said  of  thee, 
A  time  to  sow  and  reap  is  in  thy  destiny. 

E.  S.  H. 


THE   BEGGAR 

A  BEGGAR  through  the  world  am  I,  - 
From  place  to  place  I  wander  by. 
Fill  up  my  pilgrim's  scrip  for  me, 
For  Christ's  sweet  sake  and  charity ! 

A  little  of  thy  steadfastness, 
Bounded  with  leafy  gracefulness, 
Old  oak,  give  me,  — 


368  EACH  AND  ALL. 

That  the  world's  blasts  may  round  me  blow, 
And  I  yield  gently  to  and  fro, 
While  my  stout-hearted  trunk  below 
And  firm-set  roots  unshaken  be. 

Heaven  help  me !  how  could  I  forget 
To  beg  of  thee,  dear  violet  ? 

Some  of  thy  modesty, 
That  blossoms  here  as  well,  unseen, 
As  if  before  the  world  thou  'dst  be*en, 

Oh,  give,  to  strengthen  me ! 

LOWELL. 


EACH  AND   ALL. 

LITTLE  thinks,  in  the  field,  yon  red-cloaked  clown 

Of  thee  from  the  hill-top  looking  down ; 

The  heifer  that  lows  in  the  upland  farm, 

Far-heard,  lows  not  thine  ear  to  charm ; 

The  sexton,  tolling  his  bell  at  noon, 

Deems  not  that  great  Napoleon 

Stops  his  horse  and  lists  with  delight, 

Whilst  his  files  sweep  round  yon  Alpine  height ; 

Nor  knowest  thou  what  argument 

Thy  life  to  thy  neighbor's  creed  has  lent. 

All  are  needed  by  each  one ; 

Nothing  is  fair  or  good  alone. 

I  thought  the  sparrow's  note  from  heaven, 

Singing  at  dawn  on  the  alder  bough ; 

I  brought  him  home  in  his  nest  at  even. 

He  sings  the  song,  but  it  cheers  not  now ; 

For  I  did  not  bring  home  the  river  and  sky : 

He  sang  to  my  ear,  —  they  sang  to  my  eye. 


EACH  AND  ALL.  369 

The  delicate  shells  lay  on  the  shore ; 

The  bubbles  of  the  latest  wave 

Fresh  pearls  to  their  enamel  gave ; 

And  the  bellowing  of  the  savage  sea 

Greeted  their  safe  escape  to  me. 

I  wiped  away  the  weeds  and  foam, 

I  fetched  my  sea-born  treasures  home ; 

But  the  ppor,  unsightly,  noisome  things 

Had  left  their  beauty  on  the  shore, 

With  the  sun,  and  the  sand,  and  the  wild  uproar. 

The  lover  watched  his  graceful  maid 

As  'mid  the  virgin  train  she  strayed ; 

Nor  knew  her  beauty's  best  attire 

Was  woven  still  by  the  snow-white  choir. 

At  last  she  came  to  his  hermitage, 

Like  the  bird  from  the  woodlands  to  the  cage ;  — 

The  gay  enchantment  was  undone  ; 

A  gentle  wife,  but  fairy  none. 

Then  I  said,  "  I  covet  truth  ; 

Beauty  is  unripe  childhood's  cheat ; 

I  leave  it  behind  with  the  games  of  youth." 

As  I  spoke,  beneath  my  feet 

The  ground-pine  curled  its  pretty  wreath, 

Running  over  the  club-moss  burrs ; 

I  inhaled  the  violet's  breath ; 

Around  me  stood  the  oaks  and  firs  ; 

Pine-cones  and  acorns  lay  on  the  ground ; 

Over  me  soared  the  eternal  sky, 

Full  of  light  and  of  deity ; 

Again  I  saw,  again  I  heard, 

The  rolling  river,  the  morning  bird;  — 

Beauty  through  my  senses  stole ; 

I  yielded  myself  to  the  perfect  whole. 

EMERSON. 

Read  more  than  once  at  our  house  by  Mr.  E. 

24 


370  SLEEP. 


SLEEP. 

"I  cannot  tell  how  I  knew  him,  but  I  knew  him  to  be  the  genius  of  death. 
Breathless  as  I  was  at  beholding  him,  I  soon  became  familiar  with  his  features. 
First,  they  seemed  calm  ;  presently  they  grew  contemplative  ;  and  lastly,  beauti- 
ful :  those  of  the  Graces  themselves  are  less  regular,  less  harmonious,  less 
composed."  —  LANDOR. 

O  GENTLE  Sleep,  who  oft  hast  cradled  me 

In  weary  hours, 

Hast  laid  thy  still  palm  on  my  heated  brow, 
And  bound  thereon,  when  I  was  sad  as  now, 

The  silent  poppy  flowers  ! 

Thou  canst  not  aid  me  here;  but  there  is  One, 

Brother  of  thine, 

Who  holds  a  medicine  that  will  ease  all  pain : 
Tell  him,  I  pray  thee,  straightway,  I  would  fain 

Be  eased  of  mine. 

Blessings  on  thee, 
Thou  guardian  angel  to  the  lost  child,  Time  ! 

All  sorrowing  hearts 

Beat  thanks  to  thee,  but  look  with  longing  eye 
To  where  thy  brother's  kinder  ministry 

The  lax  cord  parts. 

Paler  than  thou, 
Elder  and  far  more  beautiful  is  he, 

And  on  his  brow 

Sits  the  high  calm  that  warrants  all  redress  ; 
Abiding  home  to  heads  all  shelterless 

Will  he  allow. 


MY  PSALM.  371 

Go,  gentle  Sleep, 
Tell  him  the  woes  of  time  come  thick  and  fast ; 

Tell  him  we  lie 

Within  the  shadow  of  the  ebon  gate 
And  for  the  music  of  its  opening  wait, 

Longing  to  die. 

E.  S.  H. 


MY   PSALM. 

I  MOURN  no  more  my  vanished  years ; 

Beneath  a  tender  rain, 
An  April  rain  of  smiles  and  tears, 

My  heart  is  young  again. 

No  longer  forward  nor  behind 

I  look  in  hope  and  fear ; 
But,  grateful,  take  the  good  I  find, 

The  best  of  now,  and  here. 

I  plough  no  more  a  desert  land 

To  harvest  weed  and  tare; 
The  manna  dropping  from  God's  hand 

Rebukes  my  painful  care. 

That  more  and  more  a  Providence 

Of  love  is  understood, 
Making  the  springs  of  time  and  sense 

Sweet  with  eternal  good ; 

That  death  seems  but  a  covered  way, 

Which  opens  into  light. 
Wherein  no  blinded  child  can  stray 

Beyond  the  Father's  sight ; 


372  THE  LIGHT  OF  STARS. 

That  care  and  trial  seem  at  last, 
Through  memory's  sunset  air, 

Like  mountain  ranges  overpast  , 
In  purple  distance  fair ; 

That  all  the  jarring  notes  of  life 
Seem  blending  in  a  psalm, 

And  all  the  angles  of  its  strife 
Slow  rounding  into  calm. 

And  so  the  shadows  fall  apart, 
And  so  the  west- winds  play  ; 

And  all  the  windows  of  my  heart 
I  open  to  the  day. 


WHITTIER. 


THE   LIGHT   OF   STARS. 

THE  night  is  come,  but  not  too  soon ; 

And  sinking  silently, 
All  silently,  the  little  moon 

Drops  down  behind  the  sky. 

There  is  no  light  in  earth  or  heaven 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars ; 

And  the  first  watch  of  night  is  given 
To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

Is  it  the  tender  star  of  love  ? 

The  star' of  love  and  dreams  ? 
Oh,  no !  from  that  blue  tent  above, 

A  hero's  •armor  gleams. 

And  earnest  thoughts  within  me  rise, 

When  I  behold  afar, 
Suspended  in  the  evening  skies, 

The  shield  of  that  red  star. 


A    PSALM  OF  LIFE.  373 

0  star  of  strength !  I  see  thee  stand 
And  smile  upon  my  pain ; 

Thou  beckonest  with  thy  mailed  hand, 
And  I  am  strong  again. 

Within  my  breast  there  is  no  light 
But  the  cold  light  of  stars ; 

1  give  the  first  watch  of  the  night 

To  the  red  planet  Mars. 

The  star  of  the  unconquered  will, 

He  rises  in  my  breast, 
Serene,  and  resolute,  and  still, 

And  calm,  and  self-possessed. 

And  thou,  too,  whosoe'er  thou  art, 

That  readest  this  brief  psalm, 
As  one  by  one  thy  hopes  depart, 

Be  resolute  and  calm. 

Oh,  fear  not  in  a  world  like  this, 

And  thou  shalt  know  erelong, 

Know  how  sublime  a  thing  it  is 

To  suffer  and  be  strong. 

LONGFELLOW. 


A   PSALM   OF   LIFE. 

WHAT   THE   HEART   OF   THE   YOUNG   MAN    SAID   TO    THE    PSALMIST. 

TELL  me  not,  in  mournful  numbers, 

Life  is  but  an  empty  dream ! 
For  the  soul  is  dead  that  slumbers, 

And  things  are  not  what  they  seem. 

Life  is  real !  Life  is  earnest ! 
And  the  grave  is  not  its  goal ; 


374  A    PSALM  OF  LIFE. 

Dust  thou  art,  to  dust  returnest, 
Was  not  spoken  of  the  soul. 

Not  enjoyment,  and  not  sorrow, ' 
Is  our  destined  end  or  way  ; 

But  to  act,  that  each  to-morrow 
Find  us  farther  than  to-day. 

Art  is  long,  and  Time  is  fleeting, 

And  our  hearts,  though  stout  and  brave, 

Still,  like  muffled  drums,  are  beating 
Funeral  marches  to  the  grave. 

In  the  world's  broad  field  of  battle, 

In  the  bivouac  of  Life, 
Be  not  like  dumb,  driven  cattle ! 

Be  a  hero  in  the  strife  ! 

Trust  no  Future,  howe'er  pleasant ! 

Let  the  dead  Past  bury  its  dead  ! 
Act,  —  act  in  the  living  Present ! 

Heart  within,  and  God  o'erhead  ! 

Lives  of  great  men  all  remind  us 
We  can  make  our  lives  sublime, 

And,  departing,  leave  behind  us 
Footprints  on  the  sands  of  time ;  — 

Footprints,  that  perhaps  another, 
Sailing  o'er  life's  solemn  main, 

A  forlorn  and  shipwrecked  brother, 
Seeing,  shall  take  heart  again. 

Let  us,  then,  be  up  and  doing, 

With  a  heart  for  any  fate ; 
Still  achieving,  still  pursuing, 

Learn  to  labor  and  to  wait. 

LONGFELLOW. 


QUESTIONS  AND  ANSWERS.  375 


QUESTIONS  AND   ANSWERS. 

WHERE,  oh,  where  are  the  visions  of  morning, 

Fresh  as  the  dews  of  our  prime  ? 
Gone,  like  tenants  that  quit  without  warning, 

Down  the  back  entry  of  time. 

Where,  oh,  where  are  life's  lilies  and  roses, 
Nursed  in  the  golden  dawn's  smile  ? 

Dead  as  the  bulrushes  round  little  Moses, 
On  the  old  banks  of  the  Nile. 

Where  are  the  Marys,  and  Anns,  and  Elizas, 

Loving  and  lovely  of  yore  ? 
Look  in  the  columns  of  old  Advertisers, — 

Married  and  dead  by  the  score. 

Where  the  gray  colts  and  the  ten-year-old  fillies, 

Saturday's  triumph  and  joy  ? 
Gone,  like  our  friend  TroSa?  &KVS  Achilles, 

Homer's  ferocious  old  boy. 

Die-away  dreams  of  ecstatic  emotion, 

Hopes  like  young  eagles  at  play, 
Vows  of  unheard-of  and  endless  devotion, 

How  ye  have  faded  away  ! 

Yet,  though  the  ebbing  of  time's  mighty  river 

Leave  our  young  blossoms  to  die, 
Let  him  roll  smooth  in  his  current  forever, 

Till  the  last  pebble  is  dry. 

HOLMES. 

Almost  the  first  among  my  favorites  ;  so  too  with  W.  S. 


376  FOOTSTEPS  OF  ANGELS. 


FOOTSTEPS  OF  ANGELS., 

WHEN  the  hours  of  Day  are  numbered, 

And  the  voices  of  the  Night 
Wake  the  better  soul,  that  slumbered, 

To  a  holy,  calm  delight,  — 

Ere  the  evening  lamps  are  lighted, 
And,  like  phantoms  grim  and  tall, 

Shadows  from  the  fitful  firelight 
Dance  upon  the  parlor  wall ; 

Then  the  forms  of  the  departed 

Enter  at  the  open  door,  — 
The  beloved,  the  true-hearted, 

Come  to  visit  me  once  more. 

He,  the  young  and  strong,  who  cherished 
Noble  longings  for  the  strife, 

By  the  roadside  fell  and  perished, 
Weary  with  the  march  of  life ! 

They,  the  holy  ones  and  weakly, 
Who  the  cross  of  suffering  bore, 

Folded  their  pale  hands  so  meekly, 
Spake  with  us  on  earth  no  more  ! 

And  with  them  the  Being  Beauteous,' 
Who  unto  my  youth  was  given, 

More  than  all  things  else  to  love  me, 
And  is  now  a  saint  in  heaven. 

With  a  slow  and  noiseless  footstep 
Comes  that  messenger  divine, 


FABLE.  377 

Takes  the  vacant  chair  beside  me, 
Lays  her  gentle  hand  in  mine ; 

And  she  sits  and  gazes  at  me 

With  those  deep  and  tender  eyes, 
Like  the  stars,  so  still  and  saint-like, 

Looking  downward  from  the  skies. 

Uttered  not,  yet  comprehended, 

Is  the  spirit's  voiceless  prayer, 
Soft  rebukes,  in  blessings  ended, 

Breathing  from  her  lips  of  air. 

Oh,  though  oft  depressed  and  lonely, 

All  my  fears  are  laid  aside 
If  I  but  remember  only 

Such  as  these  have  lived  and  died. 

LONGFELLOW. 


FABLE. 

THE  mountain  and  the  squirrel 

Had  a  quarrel; 

And  the  former  called  the  latter  "  Little  Prig." 

Bun  replied : 

"  You  are  doubtless  very  big ; 

But  all  sorts  of  things  and  weather 

Must  be  taken  in  together, 

To  make  up  a  year 

And  a  sphere. 

And  I  think  it  no  disgrace 

To  occupy  my  place. 

If  I  'm  not  so  large  as  you, 

You  are  not  so  small  as  I, 

And  not  half  so  spry. 


378  FORBEARANCE. 

I  '11  not  deny  you  make 

A/  very  pretty  squirrel  track  : 

Talents  differ  ;  all  is  well  and  wisely  put ; 

If  I  cannot  carry  forests  on  iny  back, 

Neither  can  you  crack  a  nut." 

EMERSON. 


FORBEARANCE. 

HAST  thou  named  all  the  birds  without  a  gun  ? 

Loved  the  wood  rose,  and  left  it  on  its  stalk  ? 

At  rich  men's  tables  eaten  bread  and  pulse  ? 

Unarmed,  faced  danger  with  a  heart  of  trust  ? 

And  loved  so  well  a  high  behavior, 

In  man  or  maid,  that  thou  from  speech  refrained, 

Nobility  more  nobly  to  repay  ? 

Oh,  be  my  friend,  and  teach  me  to  be  thine ! 

EMERSON. 


BETTER  a  sin  which  purposed  wrong  to  none 
Than  this  still  wintry  coldness  at  the  heart. 

A  penance  might  be  borne  for  evil  done, 

And  tears  of  grief  and  love  might  ease  the  smart ; 

But  this  self-satisfied  and  cold  respect 
To  virtue  which  must  be  its  own  reward, 

Heaven  keep  us  through  this  danger  still  alive, 
Lead  us  not  into  greatness,  heart-abhorred ! 

O  God,  who  framed  this  stern  New  England  land, 
Its  clear,  cold  waters,  and  its  clear,  cold  soul, 

Thou  givest  tropic  climes  and  youthful  hearts, 
Thou  weighest  spirits  and  dost  all  control ! 


THE  ARROW  AND  THE  SONG.  379 

Teach  me  to  wait  for  all,  —  to  bear  the  fault 
That  most  I  hate  because  it  is  my  own  ; 

And  if  I  fail  through  foul  conceit  of  good, 
Let  me  sin  deep,  so  I  may  cast  no  stone. 

E.  S.  H. 


ANSWEK  TO   "LOVE   NOT." 

LOVE  thou  !  for  though  the  thing  thou  lov'st  must  die, 

Must  perish  from  the  earth  and  from  the  sky, 

Its  memory  until  thy  dying  hour 

Shall  be  to  thee  a  spell  of  love  and  power. 

Love  thou  !  for  though  the  thing  thou  lov'st  may  change, 

The  fond  eye  wander,  and  the  leal  heart  range, 

It  is  more  blest  to  give  than  to  receive, 

And  he  who  truly  loves  can  well  afford  to  grieve. 

Love  thou !  for  though  thou  oft  must  love  in  vain, 
Though  the  dove  fly  forth  and  come  not  back  again, 
Brave  thou  the  storm !  thou  yet  shalt  find  thy  dove, 
And  shalt  know  at  last,  —  to  live  is  yet  to  love. 

Perhaps  her  best. 

THE   AEEOW  AND   THE   SONG. 

I  SHOT  an  arrow  into  the  air, 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where ; 
For,  so  swiftly  it  flew,  the  sight 
Could  not  follow  it  in  its  flight. 

I  breathed  a  song  into  the  air, 
It  fell  to  earth,  I  knew  not  where  ; 
For  who  has  sight  so  keen  and  strong, 
That  it  can  follow  the  flight-  of  song  ? 


380  TERMINUS. 


Long,  long  afterward,  in  an  oak 
I  found  the  arrow,  still  unbroke ; 
And  the  song,  from  beginning  to  end, 
I  found  again  in  the  heart  of  a  friend. 


LONGFELLOW. 


TERMINUS. 

IT  is  time  to  be  old, 

To  take  in  sail :  — 

The  god  of  bounds, 

Who  sets  to  seas  a  shore, 

Came  to  me  in  his  fatal  rounds, 

And  said  :  "  No  more  ! 

No  farther  shoot 

The  broad  ambitious  branches,  and  thy  root : 

Fancy  departs  ;  no  more  invent, 

Contract  thy  firmament 

To  compass  of  a  tent. 

There  's  not  enough  for  this  and  that, 

Make  thy  option  which  of  two ; 

Economize  the  failing  river, 

Not  the  less  revere  the  Giver, 

Leave  the  many  and  hold  the  few. 

Timely  wise  accept  the  terms, 

Soften  the  fall  with  wary  foot : 

A  little  while  \ 

Still  plan  and  smile, 

And,  fault  of  novel  germs, 

Mature  the  unfallen  fruit. 

Curse,  if  thou  wilt,  thy  sires, 

Bad  husbands  of  their  fires, 

Who,  when  they  gave  thee  breath, 


JUNE.  381 

Failed  to  bequeath 

The  needful  sinew  stark  as  once 

The  Baresark  marrow  to  thy  bones, 

But  left  a  legacy  of  ebbing  veins, 

Inconstant  heat  and  nerveless  reins,  — 

Amid  the  muses,  left  thee  deaf  and  dumb  ; 

Amid  the  gladiators,  halt  and  numb." 

As  the  bird  trims  her  to  the  gale, 

I  trim  myself  to  the  storm  of  time, 

I  man  the  rudder,  reef  the  sail, 

Obey  the  voice  at  eve  obeyed  at  prime : 

"  Lowly  faithful,  banish  fear, 

Eight  onward  drive  unharmed ; 

The  port,  well  worth  the  cruise,  is  near, 

And  every  wave  is  charmed." 

EMERSON. 


JUNE. 

V 

AND  what  is  so  rare  as  a  day  in  June  ? 

Then,  if  ever,  come  perfect  days ; 
Then  heaven  tries  the  earth  if  it  be  in  tune, 

And  over  it  softly  her  warm  ear  lays. 
Whether  we  look,  or  whether  we  listen, 
We  hear  life  murmur,  or  see  it  glisten ; 
Every  clod  feels  a  stir  of  might, 

An  instinct  within  it  that  reaches  and  towers, 
And,  groping  blindly  above  it  for  light, 

Climbs  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  flowers. 
The  flush  of  life  may  well  be  seen 

Thrilling  back  over  hills  and  valleys  ; 


382  THE  WISEST  MAN  COULD  ASK  NO  MORE. 

The  cowslip  startles  in  meadows  green, 

The  buttercup  catches  the  sun  in  its  chalice, 
And  there 's  never  a  leaf  or  a  blade  too  mean 

To  be  some  happy  creature's  palace. 
The  little  bird  sits  at  his  door  in  the  sun, 

Atilt  like  a  blossom  among  the  leaves, 
And  lets  his  illumined  being  o'errun 

With  the  deluge  of  summer  it  receives  ; 
His  mate  feels  the  eggs  beneath  her  wings, 
And  the  heart  in  her  dumb  breast  nutters  and  sings : 
He  sings  to  the  wide  world,  and  she  to  her  nest  — 
In  the  nice  ear  of  nature,  which  song  is  the  best  ? 

LOWELL,  Sir  LaunfaVs  Vision. 


THE   WISEST   MAN   COULD   ASK   NO   MOKE. 

THE  wisest  man  could  ask  no  more  of  fate, 
Than  to  be  simple,  modest,  manly,  true, 
Safe  from  the  many,  honored  by  the  few, 
Nothing  to  covet  in  world  or  church  or  state, 
But  inwardly  in  secret  to  be  great ; 
To  feel  mysterious  nature  ever  new, 
To  touch,  if  not  to  grasp,  her  endless  clew, 
And  learn  by  each  discovery  how  to  wait ; 
To  widen  knowledge  and  escape  the  praise, 
Wisely  to  teach,  because  more  wise  to  learn ; 
To  toil  for  science,  not  to  draw  men's  gaze, 
But  for  her  love  of  self-denial  stern. 
That  such  a  man  could  spring  from  our  decays 
Fans  the  soul's  nobler  faith  until  it  burn. 

LOWELL,  TJie  Nation. 


DOROTHY.  383 


IT   MAY   NOT   BE   OUR   LOT    TO   WIELD. 

IT  may  not  be  our  lot  to  wield 
The  sickle  in  the  ripened  field 
Nor  ours  to  hear  on  summer  eves 
The  reapers'  song  among  the  sheaves. 

Yet  where  our  duty's  task  is  wrought 

In  unison  with  God's  great  thought,  « 

The  near  and  future  blend  in  one, 

And  whatsoe'er  is  willed,  is  done ! 

WHITTIER,  Seedtime  and  Harvest. 


DOROTHY. 

You  say  that  my  love  is  plain ; 

But  that  I  can  ne'er  allow, 
When  I  look  at  the  thought  for  others 

That 's  written  on  her  brow. 
Her  eyes  are  not  fine,  I  own  ; 

She  has  n't  a  well-cut  nose, 
But  a  smile  for  others'  pleasures, 

And  a  tear  for  others'  woes ; 
And  yet  I  will  own  she  's  plain,  — 

Plain  to  be  understood, 
For  who  could  doubt  that  her  nature 

Is  simple  and  pure  and  good  ? 

You  say  that  you  think  her  slow ; 

But  how  can  that  be  with  one 
Who 's  the  first  to  do  a  kindness 

Whenever  it  can  be  done  ? 


384  DOROTHY. 

Quick  to  perceive  a  want, 

Quicker  to  set  it  right, 
Quickest  in  overlooking 

Injury,  wrong,  and  slight  ? 
And  yet  she  is  slow  indeed,  — 

Slow  any  praise  to  claim, 
Slow  to  see  faults  in  others, 

Slow  to  give  careless  blame. 

"  Nothing  to  say  for  herself," 

That  is  the  fault  you  find  ? 
Hark  to  her  words  to  the  children, 

Merry  and  bright  and  kind. 
Hark  to  her  words  to  the  sick, 

Look  at  her  patient  ways  ; 
Every  word  she  utters 

Speaks  in  the  speaker's  praise. 
Nothing  to  say  for  herself ! 

Yet  right,  most  right  you  are ; 
But  plenty  to  say  to  others, 

And  that  is  better  by  far. 

You  say  she  is  "  commonplace," 

But  there  you  make  a  mistake  : 
I  would  I  could  think  she  were  so, 

For  other  maidens'  sake. 
Purity,  truth,  and  love,  — 

Are  they  such  common  things  ? 
If  hers  were  a  common  nature, 

Women  would  all  have  wings. 
Talent  she  may  not  have, 

Beauty,  nor  wit,  nor  grace ; 
But  until  she 's  among  the  angels 

She  will  not  be  "  commonplace." 
November,  1871.  W.  L.  T.,  Good  Words. 


/  SLEPT  AND  DREAMED.  385 


LINES   ON   BEING   ASKED,   "WHENCE   IS    THE   FLOWER?" 

IN  May,  when  sea-winds  pierced  our  solitudes, 
I  found  the  fresh  Ehodora  in  the  woods, 
Spreading  its  leafless  blooms  in  a  damp  nook, 
To  please  the  desert  and  the  sluggish  brook. 
The  purple  petals,  fallen  in  the  pool, 

Made  the  black  waters  with  their  beauty  gay ; 
Here  might  the  red-bird  come  his  plumes  to  cool, 

And  court  the  flower  that  cheapens  his  array. 
Ehodora  !  if  the  sages  ask  thee  why 
This  charm  is  wasted  on  the  marsh  and  sky, 
Dear,  tell  them  that  if  eyes  were  made  for  seeing, 
Then  beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being. 

Why  thou  wert  there,  0  rival  of  the  rose ! 
I  never  thought  to  ask ;  I  never  knew, 

But,  in  my  simple  ignorance,  suppose 
The  self-same  Power  that  brought  me  there,  brought  you. 

EMERSON. 


I   SLEPT  AND   DREAMED. 

I  SLEPT,  and  dreamed  that  life  was  beauty,  — 
I  woke,  and  found  that  life  was  duty. 
Was  thy  dream  then  a  shadowy  lie  ? 
Toil  on,  poor  heart,  unceasingly, 
And  thou  shalt  find  thy  dream  to  be 
A  truth,  and  noonday  light  to  thee. 

E.  S.  H. 
25 


386  ON  A    CHILD  DROWNED. 


EPITAPH. 

STRANGER,  them  readest  carelessly 

The  stone  on  this  hillside, 
And  little  dost  thou  know  how  much 

Doth  lie  within  those  words,  "He  died." 

What  years  of  rich,  eventful  life, 

What  waste  and  what  increase 
Of  a  strong  heart's  deep,  heaving  sea 

Are  gathered  in  this  peace. 

E.  S.  H. 


ON   A   CHILD   DROWNED. 

NOT  by  thy  bed  of  tedious,  lingering  pain 
Friends  wept,  and  doubted  life  were  loss  or  gain, 
Watching  the  ebbing  pulse  and  failing  eye, 
The  slow  defeat  of  sad  mortality : 
Thy  doom  came  on  thee,  like  God's  lightning,  sent 
For  human  wonder  and  admonishment. 

One  moment  in  thy  merry  infant  glee 
Laughing  and  prattling  at  thy  mother's  knee ; 
The  next  —  gay  wandering  in  summer's  air, 
To  meet  thy  welcome  and  thy  farewell  there. 

Did  some  low  voice,  unheard  by  all  beside, 
Summon  thee  out,  so  helpless  and  untried, 
To  tread  with  thy  small  feet  and  faltering  breath 
The  Valley  of  the  Shadow  of  thy  Death  ? 


TO  ELIZA.  387 

No ;  God,  whose  smile  spread  o'er  the  heavens  that  day, 

Bore  thee  himself  along  the  unuttered  way. 

Grieve  not,  O  mother,  that  thou  wast  not  there : 

Swift  was  the  passage,  tender  was  the  care ; 

That  brief  pang  o'er,  we  scarce  could  say,  "  She  died," 

So  sweetly  pastured  on  the  other  side. 

E.  S.  H. 


EXTEACT   FROM  "THRENODY." 

0  CHILD  of  paradise, 

Boy  who  made  dear  his  father's  home, 

In  whose  deep  eyes 

Men  read  the  welfare  of  the  times  to  come, 

1  am  too  much  bereft. 

The  world  dishonored  thou  hast  left. 
O  truth's  and  nature's  costly  lie-! 
O  trusted  broken  prophecy ! 
O  richest  fortune  sourly  crossed ! 
Born  for  the  future,  to  the  future  lost ! 

EMERSON. 


TO   ELIZA. 

THE  world  is  bright  before  thee, 

Its  summer  flowers  are  thine, 
Its  calm  blue  sky  is  o'er  thee, 

Thy  bosom  Pleasure's  shrine ; 
And  thine  the  sunbeam  given 

To  Nature's  morning  hour, 
Pure,  warm,  as  when  from  heaven 

It  burst  on  Eden's  bower. 


388  WOMAN. 


There  is  a  song  of  sorrow, 

The  death-dirge  of  the  gay, 
That  tells,  ere  dawn  of  morrow, 

These  charms  may  melt  away,  — 
That  sun's  bright  beam  be  shaded, 

That  sky  be  blue  no  more, 
The  summer  flowers  be  faded, 

And  youth's  warm  promise  o'er. 

Believe  it  not,  though  lonely 

Thy  evening  home  may  be, 
Though  Beauty's  bark  can  only 

Float  on  a  summer  sea ; 
Though  Time  thy  bloom  is  stealing, 

There's  still  beyond  his  art 
The  wild-flower  wreath  of  feeling, 

The  sunbeam  of  the  heart. 

HALLECK. 


WOMAN. 

WKITTEN   IN   THE   ALBUM   OF   AN   UNKNOWN  LADY. 

LADY,  although  we  have  not  met, 
And  may  not  meet,  beneath  the  sky ; 

And  whether  thine  are  eyes  of  jet, 

Gray,  or  dark  blue,  or  violet, 

Or  hazel  —  Heaven  knows,  not  I. 

Whether  around  thy  cheek  of  rose 

A  maiden's  glowing  locks  are  curled, 
And  to  some  thousand  kneeling  beaux 
Thy  frown  is  cold  as  winter's  snows, 
Thy  smile  is  worth  a  world ; 


WOMAN.  389 

Or  whether,  past  youth's  joyous  strife, 

The  calm  of  thought  is  on  thy  brow, 
And  thou  art  in  thy  noon  of  life, 
Loving  and  loved,  a  happy  wife, 

And  happier  mother  now,  — 

I  know  not ;  but,  whate'er  thou  art, 
Whoe'er  thou  art,  were  mine  the  spell 

To  call  Fate's  joys  or  blunt  his  dart, 

There  should  not  be  one  hand  or  heart 
But  served  or  wished  thee  well 

For  thou  art  Woman,  —  with  that  word 
Life's  dearest  hopes  and  memories  come ; 

Truth,  Beauty,  Love,  in  her  adored, 

And  earth's  lost  Paradise  restored 
In  the  green  bower  of  home. 


If  to  his  song  the  echo  rings 

Of  Fame,  't  is  woman's  voice  he  hears ; 
If  ever  from  his  lyre's  proud  strings 
Flow  sounds  like  rush  of  angel  wings, 
'Tis  that  she  listens  while  he  sings, 

With  blended  smiles  and  tears,  — 

Smiles,  tears,  whose  blessed  and  blessing  power, 

Like  sun  and  dew  o'er  summer's  tree, 
Alone  keeps  green,  through  time's  long  hour, 
That  frailer  thing  than  leaf  or  flower, 
A  Poet's  immortality. 

HALLECK. 


390          THE   SOCIETY   UPON   THE   STANISLAUS. 


v         THE   SOCIETY   UPON  THE   STANISLAUS. 

I  EESIDE  at  Table  Mountain,  and  my  name  is  Truthful  James : 
I  am  not  up  to  small  deceit  or  any  sinful  games ; 
And  I  '11  tell  in  simple  language  what  I  know  about  the  row 
That  broke  up  our  Society  upon  the  Stanislow. 

But  first  I  would  remark,  that  it  is  not  a  proper  plan 
For  any  scientific  gent  to  whale  his  fellow-man, 
And,  if  a  member  don't  agree  with  his  peculiar  whim, 
To  lay  for  that  same  member  for  to  "  put  a  head  "  on  him. 

Now,  nothing  could  be  finer  or  more  beautiful  to  see 
Than  the  first  six  months'  proceedings  of  that  same  Society ; 
Till  Brown  of  Calaveras  brought  a  lot  of  fossil  bones 
That  he  found  within  a  tunnel  near  the  tenement  of  Jones. 

Then  Brown  he  read  a  paper,  and  he  reconstructed  there, 
From  those  same  bones,  an  animal  that  was  extremely  rare : 
And  Jones  then  asked  the  chair  for  a  suspension  of  the  rules, 
Till  he  could  prove  that  those  same  bones  was  one  of  his  lost 
mules. 

Then  Brown  he  smiled  a  bitter  smile,  and  said  he  was  at  fault ; 
It  seemed  he  had  been  trespassing  on  Jones's  family  vault. 
He  was  a  most  sarcastic  man,  this  quiet  Mr.  Brown, 
And  on  several  occasions  he  had  cleaned  out  the  town. 

Now,  I  hold  it  is  not  decent  for  a  scientific  gent 
To  say  another  is  an  ass,  —  at  least,  to  all  intent ; 
Nor  should  the  individual  who  happens  to  be  meant 
Reply  by  heaving  rocks  at  him  to  any  great  extent. 


THE  RHYME   OF  THE  ANCIENT  COASTER.         391 

Then  Abner  Dean,  of  Angel's,  raised  a  point  of  order,  when 
A  chunk  of  old  red  sandstone  took  him  in  the  abdomen ; 
And  he  smiled  a  kind  of  sickly  smile,  and  curled  up  on  the  floor, 
And  the  subsequent  proceedings  interested  him  no  more. 

For,  in  less  time  than  I  write  it,  every  member  did  engage 
In  a  warfare  with  the  remnants  of  a  palaeozoic  age ; 
And  the  way  they  heaved  those  fossils  in  their  anger  was  a  sin, 
Till  the  skull  of  an  old  mammoth  caved  the  head  of  Thompson  in. 

And  this  is  all  I  have  to  say  of  these  improper  games, 
For  I  live  at  Table  Mountain,  and  my  name  is  Truthful  James ; 
And  I  've  told  in  simple  language  what  I  know  about  the  row 
That  broke  up  our  Society  upon  the  Stanislow. 

BRET  HARTE. 

Associated  with  the  pleasant  evening  when  I  first  heard  it,  at  the  Club  reading 
at  Mr.  ROCKWELL'S  house. 


THE  RHYME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  COASTER. 

"And  this  our  life  exempt  from  public  haunt 
Finds  tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks, 
Sermons  in  stones,  and  good  in  everything." 

SHAKSPEARE. 

(Written  while  sailing  in  an  open  boat  on  the  Hudson  River,  between  Stony 
Point  and  the  Highlands,  on  seeing  the  wreck  of  an  old  sloop,  June,  1821.) 

HER  side  is  in  the  water, 

Her  keel  is  in  the  sand, 
And  her  bowsprit  rests  on  the  low  gray  rock 

That  bounds  the  sea  and  land. 

Her  deck  is  without  a  mast, 
And  sand  and  shells  are  there, 


392        THE  RHYME   OF   THE  ANCIENT  COASTER. 

And  the  teeth  of  decay  are  gnawing  her  planks, 
In  the  sun  and  sultry  air. 

No  more  on  the  river's  bosom, 
When  sky  and  wave  are  calm, 

And  the  clouds  are  in  summer  quietness, 
And  the  cool  night-breath  is  balm, 

Will  she  glide  in  the  swan-like  stillness 
Of  the  moon  in  the  blue  above, 

A  messenger  from  other  lands, 
A  beacon  to  hope  and  love. 

No  more,  in  the  midnight  tempest, 
Will  she  mock  the  mounting  sea, 

Strong  in  her  oaken  timbers 
And  her  white  sail's  bravery. 

She  hath  borne,  in  days  departed, 
Warm  hearts  upon  her  deck ; 

Those  hearts,  like  her,  are  mouldering  now, 
The  victims  and  the  wreck 

Of  time,  whose  touch  erases 

Each  vestige  of  all  we  love. 
The  wanderers,  home  returning, 

Who  gazed  that  deck  above, 

And  they  who  stood  to  welcome 
Their  loved  ones  on  that  shore, 

Are  gone,  and  the  place  that  knew  them 
Shall  know  them  nevermore. 

It  was  a  night  of  terror, 
In  the  autumn  equinox, 


THE  FIRST  KISS  OF  AFFECTION.  393 

When  that  gallant  vessel  found  a  grave 
Upon  the  Peekskill  rocks. 

Captain,  mate,  cook,  and  seamen 

(They  were  in  all  but  three) 
Were  saved  by  swimming  fast  and  well, 

And  their  gallows-destiny. 

But  two,  a  youth  and  maiden, 

Were  left  to  brave  the  storm, 
With  unpronounceable  Dutch  names, 

And  hearts  with  true  love  warm. 

And  they  —  for  love  has"  watchers 

In  air,  on  earth,  and  sea  — 
Were  saved  by  clinging  to  the  wreck, 

And  their  marriage-destiny. 

HALLECK. 


THE   FIRST   KISS   OF   AFFECTION. 

HUMID  seal  of  soft  affections, 
Tenderest  pledge  of  future  bliss, 

Dearest  tie  of  young  connections, 
Love's  first  snow-drop,  virgin  kiss. 

Speaking  silence,  dumb  confession, 
Passion's  birth  and  infant  play, 

Dove-like  fondness,  chaste  concession, 
Glowing  dawn  of  brighter  day. 

Sorrowing  joy,  adieu's  last  action, 

When  lingering  lips  no  more  must  join, 

What  words  can  ever  speak  affection 
So  thrilling  and  sincere  as  thine  ? 

BURNS. 


394  JOCK   OF  HAZELDEAN. 

JOCK   OF   HAZELDEAN.  . 

AIR  :  A  Border  Melody. 

"  WHY  weep  ye  by  the  tide,  ladie  ? 

Why  weep  ye  by  the  tide  ? 
I  '11  wed  ye  to  my  youngest  son, 

And  ye  sail  be  his  bride : 
And  ye  sail  be  his  bride,  ladie, 

Sae  comely  to  be  seen." 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

"  Now  let  this  wilfu'  grief  be  done, 

And  dry  that  cheek  so  pale ; 
Young  Frank  is  chief  of  Errington, 

And  lord  of  Langley-dale ; 
His  step  is  first  in  peaceful  ha', 

His  sword  in  battle  keen." 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

"  A  chain  of  gold  ye  sail  not  lack, 

Nor  braid  to  bind  your  hair ; 
Nor  mettled  hound,  nor  managed  hawk, 

Nor  palfrey  fresh  and  fair ; 
And  you,  the  foremost  o'  them  a', 

Shall  ride  our  forest  queen." 
But  aye  she  loot  the  tears  down  fa' 

For  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

The  kirk  was  decked  at  morning-tide, 
The  tapers  glimmered  fair ; 


A   RIDDLE.  395 

The  priest  and  bridegroom  wait  the  bride, 

And  dame  and  knight  are  there. 
They  sought  her  baith  by  bpwer  and  ha' : 

The  ladie  was  not  seen. 
She 's  o'er  the  Border,  and  awa' 

Wi'  Jock  of  Hazeldean. 

SCOTT. 


A   KIDDLE. 

'T  WAS  whispered  in  heaven,  and  't  was  muttered  in  hell, 

And  echo  caught  faintly  the  sound  ,as  it  fell ; 

On  the  confines  of  earth  't  was  permitted  to  rest, 

And  the  depths  of  the  ocean  its  presence  confessed. 

'Twill  be  found  in  the  sphere  when  'tis  riven  asunder, 

Be  seen  in  the  lightning  and  heard  in  the  thunder. 

'T  was  allotted  to  man  with  his  earliest  breath, 

Attends  him  at  birth,  and  awaits  him  in  death, 

Presides  o'er  his  happiness,  honor,  and  health, 

Is  the  prop  of  his  house,  and  the  end  of  his  wealth. 

In  the  heaps  of  the  miser  't  is  hoarded  with  care, 

But  is  sure  to  be  lost  on  his  prodigal  heir. 

It  begins  every  hope,  every  wish  it  must  bound/ 

With  the  husbandman  toils,  and  with  monarchs  is  crowned. 

Without  it  the  soldier,  the  seaman,  may  roam ; 

But  woe  to  the  wretch  who  expels  it  from  home  ! 

In  the  whispers  of  conscience  its  voice  will  be  found, 

Nor  e'en  in  the  whirlwind  of  passion  be  drowned. 

'T  will  not  soften  the  heart ;  but,  though  deaf  be  the  ear, 

It  will  make  it  acutely  and  instantly  hear. 

Yet  in  shade  let  it  rest,  like  a  delicate  flower, 

Ah !  breathe  on  it  softly,  it  dies  in  an  hour. 

CATHERINE  FANSHAWE. 


396  COURTSHIP   OF  OUR    CID. 


WOMAN. 

0  WOMAN  !  in  our  hours  of  ease 
Uncertain,  coy,  and  hard  to  please, 
And  variable  as  the  shade 
By  the  light,  quivering  aspen  made ; 
When  pain  and  anguish  wring  the  brow, 
A  ministering  angel  thou  ! 


SCOTT,  Marmion. 


COUKTSHIP   OF   OUR  CID. 

WHAT  a  pang  of  sweet  emotion 

Thrilled  the  master  of  the  ring 
When  he  first  beheld  the  lady 

Through  the  stabled  portals  spring  ! 
Midway  in  his  wild  grimacing 

Stopped  the  piebald-visaged  clown  ; 
And  the  thunders  of  the  audience 

Nearly  brought  the  gallery  down. 

And  she  beckoned  for  her  courser, 

And  they  brought  a  milk-white  mare. 
Proud,  I  ween,  was  that  Arabian 

Such  a  gentle  freight  to.bear; 
And  the  master  moved  to  greet  her, 

With  a  proud  and  stately  walk, 
And  in  reverential  homage 

Rubbed  her  soles  with  virgin  chalk. 


MY  KATE.  397 

Hark  !  the  blare  of  yonder  trumpet ! 

See !  the  gates  are  opened  wide ! 
Boom  there,  room  there,  for  Gomersalez,  — • 

Gomersalez  in  his  pride ! 
Rose  the  shouts  of  exultation, 

Rose  the  cat's  triumphant  call, 
As  he  bounded,  man  and  courser, 

Over  master,  clown,  and  all. 

Donna  Inez  Woolfordinez ! 
.  Why  those  blushes  on  thy  cheek  ? 
Doth  thy  trembling  bosom  tell  thee 

He  hath  come  thy  love  to  seek  ? 
Fleet  thy  Arab,  but  behind  thee 

He  is  rushing  like  a  gale ; 
One  foot  on  his  coal-black's  .shoulders, 

And  the  other  on  his  tail ! 

AYTOON. 


MY   KATE. 

SHE  was  not  as  pretty  as  women  I  know, 
And  yet  all  your  best  made  of  sunshine  and  snow 
Drop  to  shade,  melt  to  nought  in  the  long-trodden  ways, 
While  she 's  still  remembered  on  warm  and  cold  days,  — 

My  Kate. 

Her  hair  had  a  meaning,  her  movement  a  grace ; 
You  turned  from  the  fairest  to  gaze  in  her  face : 
And  when  you  had  once  seen  her  forehead  and  mouth, 
You  saw  as  distinctly  her  soul  and  her  truth,  — 

My  Kate. 


398  MY  KATE. 

Such  a  blue  inner  light  from  her  eyelids  outbroke, 
You  looked  at  her  silence  and  fancied  she  spoke ; 
When  she  did,  so  peculiar  yet  soft  was  the  tone, 
Though  the  loudest  spoke  also,  you  heard  her  alone,  — 

My  Kate. 

I  doubt  if  she  said  to  you  much  that  could  act 
As  a  thought  or  suggestion ;  she  did  not  attract 
In  the  sense  of  the  brilliant  and  wise :  I  infer 
'T  was  her  thinking  of  others  made  you  think  of  her, — 

t  My  Kate. 

She  never  found  fault  with  you,  never  implied 
Your  wrong  by  her  right ;  and  yet  men  at  her  side 
Grew  nobler,  girls  purer,  as  through  the  whole  town 
The  children  were  gladder  that  pulled  at  her  gown,  — 

My  Kate, 

None  knelt  at  her  feet  confessed  lovers  in  thrall ; 
They  knelt  more  to  God  than  they  used,  —  that  was  all. 
If  you  praised  her  as  charming,  some  asked  what  you  meant ; 
But  the  charm  of  her  presence  was  felt  when  she  went,  — 

My  Kate. 

The  weak  and  the  gentle,  the  ribald  and  rude, 
She  took  as  she  found  them,  and  did  them  all  good ; 
It  always  was  so  with  her,  —  see  what  you  liave  ! 
She  has  made  the  grass  greener  even  here  with  her  grave,  — 

My  Kate. 

My  dear  one !  when  thou  wast  alive  with  the  rest, 
I  held  thee  the  sweetest  and  loved  thee  the  best ; 
And  now  thou  art  dead,  shall  I  not  take  thy  part, 
As  thy  smiles  used  to  do  for  thyself,  my  sweetheart,  — 

My  Kate. 

MRS.  BROWNIN<J. 


THE  BANKS   OF  RHINE.  399 


THE   BANKS  OF   EHINE. 

THE  castled  crag  of  Drachenfels 

Frowns  o'er  the  wide  and  winding  Khine, 
Whose  breast  of  waters  broadly  swells 

Between  the  banks  which  bear  the  vine, 
And  hills  all  rich  with  blossomed  trees, 

And  fields  which  promise  corn  and  wine. 
And  scattered  cities  crowning  these, 

Whose  far  white  walls  along  them  shine, 
Have  strewed  a  scene  which  I  could  see 
With  double  joy  wert  thou  with  me  ! 

And  peasant  girls  with  deep  blue  eyes, 

And  hands  which  offer  early  flowers, 
Walk  smiling  o'er  this  paradise : 

Above,  the  frequent  feudal  towers 
Through  green  leaves  lift  their  walls  of  gray, 

And  many  a  rock  which  steeply  lowers, 
And  noble  arch  in  proud  decay, 

Look  o'er  this  vale  of  vintage  bowers ; 
But  one  thing  want  these  banks  of  Ehine,  — 
Thy  gentle  hand  to  clasp  in  mine ! 

I  send  the  lilies  given  to  me : 

Though  long  before  thy  hand  they  touch, 
I  know  that  they  must  withered  be, . 

But  yet  reject  them  not  as  such ; 
For  I  have  cherished  them  as  dear, 

Because  they  yet  may  meet  thine  eye, 
And  guide  thy  soul  to  mine  even  here, 

When  thou  behold'st  them  drooping  nigh, 


400  AN  HOUR    WITH    THEE. 

And  know'st  them  gathered  by  the  Rhine, 
And  offered  from  my  heart  to  thine ! 

The  river  nobly  foams  and  flows, 

The  charm  of  this  enchanted  ground, 
And  all  its  thousand  turns  disclose 

Some  fresher  beauty  varying  round : 
The  haughtiest  breast  its  wish  might  bound 

Through  life  to  dwell  delighted  here ; 
Nor  could  on  earth  a  spot  be  found 

To  nature  and  to  me  so  dear, 
Could  thy  dear  eyes,  in  following  mine, 
Still  sweeten  more  these  banks  of  Rhine. 


BYRON,  Childe  Harold. 


AN  HOUR  WITH   THEE. 

AN  hour  with  thee !  —  When  earliest  day 
Dapples  with  gold  the  eastern  gray, 
Oh,  what  can  frame  my  mind  to  bear 
The  toil  and  turmoil,  cark  and  care, 
New  griefs,  which  coming  hours  unfold, 
And  sad  remembrances  of  the  old  ?  — 

One  hour  with  thee  ! 

One  hour  with  thee ! — When  burning  June 
Waves  his  red  flag  at  pitch  of  noon, 
What  shall  repay  the  faithful  swain 
His  labor  on  the  sultry  plain, 
And,  more  than  cave  or  sheltering  bough, 
Cool  feverish  blood  and  throbbing  brow  ?  — 

One  hour  with  thee ! 


BONNIE  LESLEY.  401 

One  hour  with  thee !  —  When  sun  is  set, 
Oh,  what  can  teach  me  to  forget 
The  thankless  labors  of  the  day ; 
The  hopes,  the  wishes,  flung  away ; 
The  increasing  wants,  and  lessening  gains ; 
The  master's  pride,  who  scorns  my  pains  ?  — 
One  hour  with  thee  ! 

SCOTT,  Woodstock. 


.BONNIE   LESLEY. 

AIR  :  "  The  Collier's  Bonnie  Dochter." 

OH,  saw  ye  bonnie  Lesley, 
As  she  gaed  o'er  the  border  ? 

She 's  gane,  like  Alexander, 

To  spread  her  conquests  farther. 

To  see  her  is  to  love  her, 
And  love  but  her  forever  ; 

For  Nature  made  her  what  she  is, 
And  ne'er  made  sic  anither. 

Thou  art  a  queen,  fair  Lesley ; 

Thy  subjects  we,  before  thee. 
Thou  art  divine,  fair  Lesley ; 

The  hearts  o'  men  adore  thee. 

* 

The  Deil  he  could  na  scaith  thee, 
Or  aught  that  wad  belang  thee ; 

He  'd  look  into  thy  bonnie  face, 
And  say,  "  I  canna  wrang  thee." 

26 


402          A   HIGHLAND  LAD  MY  LOVE    WAS  BORN. 

The  powers  aboon  will  tent  thee : 
Misfortune  sha'  na  steer  thee ; 

Thou  'rt,  like  themselves,  sae  lovely 
That  ill  they  ne'er  let  near  thee. 

Eeturn  again,  fair  Lesley, 

Return  to  Caledonie ! 
That  we  may  brag  we  hae  a  lass 

There's  nane  again  sae  bonnie. 

BURNS.  . 
Sung  by  Mrs.  LONG. 

A   HIGHLAND   LAD   MY   LOVE  WAS   BORK 

AIR  :  "  Oh,  an  ye  were  dead,  guidman." 

A  HIGHLAND  lad  my  love  was  born, 
The  Lawlan'  laws  he  held  in  scorn ; 
But  he  still  was  faithful  to  his  clan, 
My  gallant  braw  John  Highlandman. 

CHORUS. 

Sing,  hey,  my  braw  John  Highlandman ; 
Sing,  ho,  my  braw  John  Highlandman. 
There 's  no  a  lad  in  a'  the  Ian' 
Was  match  for  my  John  Highlandman. 

With  his  philabeg  an'  tartan  plaid, 
And  gude  claymore  down  by  his  side, 
The  ladies'  hearts  he  did  trepan, 
My  gallant  braw  John  Highlandman. 
Sing,  hey,  &c. 

We  ranged  a'  from  Tweed  to  Spey, 
And  lived  like  lords  and  ladies  gay  ; 
For  a  Lawlan'  face  he  feared  nane, 
My  gallant  braw  John  Highlandman. 
Sing,  hey,  &c. 


FARE   THEE    WELL.  403 

They  banished  him  beyond  the  sea, 
But  ere  the  bud  was  on  the  tree, 
Adown  my  cheeks  the  pearls  ran, 
Embracing  my  John  Highlandman. 
Sing,  hey,  &c. 

But,  oh,  they  catched  him  at  the  last, 
And  bound  him  in  a  dungeon  fast ; 
My  curse  upon  them  every  ane, 
They  Ve  hanged  my  braw  John  Highlandman. 
Sing,  hey,  &c. 

And  now  a  widow,  I  must  mourn 
The  pleasures  that  will  ne'er  return ; 
No  comfort  but  a  hearty  can, 
When  I  think  on  John  Highlandman. 

Sing,  hey,  &c. 

BURNS,  Jolly  Beggars. 
Barque  "  Lintin."     Sung  by  Dr.  JENNISOX. 


FAEE   THEE   WELL. 

FARE  thee  well !  arid  if  forever, 

Still  forever,  fare  thee  well : 
Even  though  unforgiving,  never 

'Gainst  thee  shall  my  heart  rebel. 

Would  that  breast  were  bared  before  thee, 
Where  thy  head  so  oft  hath  lain, 

While  that  placid  sleep  came  o'er  thee 
Which  thou  ne'er  canst  know  again! 

Would  that  breast,  by  thee  glanced  over, 
Every  inmost  thought  could  show ! 

Then  thou  wouldst  at  last  discover 
'  Twas  not  well  to  spurn  it  so. 


404  WANDERING    WILLIE. 

Though  the  world  for  this  commend  thee, 
Though  it  smile  upon  the  blow, 

Even  its  praises  must  offend  thee,   .  • 
Founded  on  another's  woe ; 

Though  my  many  faults  defaced  me, 
Could  no  other  arm  be  found, 

Than  the  one  which  once  embraced  me, 
To  inflict  a  cureless  wound  ? 

Yet,  oh,  yet  thyself  deceive  not : 
Love  may  sink  by  slow  decay, 

But  by  sudden  wrench  believe  not 
Hearts  can  thus  be  torn  away ; 

Still  thine  own  its  life  retaineth ; 

Still  must  mine,  though  bleeding,  beat : 
And  the  undying  thought  which  paineth 

Is  —  that  we  no  more  may  meet. 


BYRON. 


WANDEKING  WILLIE. 

HERE  awa',  there  awa',  wandering  Willie ; 

Now  tired  with  wandering,  haud  awa'  hame ; 
Come  to  my  bosom,  my  am  only  dearie, 

Tell  me  thou  bring'st  me  my  Willie  the  same. 

Winter  winds  blew  loud  and  cauld  at  our  parting, 
Fears  for  my  Willie  brought  the  tear  in  my  e'e ; 

Now  welcome  the  simmer,  and  welcome  my  Willie, 
The  simmer  to  nature,  my  Willie  to  me. 


THE  FUGITIVES.  405 

Rest,  ye  wild  storms,  in  the  cave  o'  your  slumbers ; 

How  your  dread  howling  a  lover  alarms  ! 
Wauken,  ye  breezes !  row  gently,  ye  billows ! 

And  waft  my  dear  laddie  ance  mair  to  my  arms. 

But,  oh,  if  he 's  faithless,  and  minds  na  his  Nannie, 
Oh,  still  flow  between  us,  thou  wide-roaring  main ! 

May  I  never  see  it,  may  I  never  trow  it, 

But,  dying,  believe  that  my  Willie  's  my  ain. 

BUENS. 


THE  FUGITIVES. 

i. 

THE  waters  are  flashing, 
The  white  hail  is  dashing, 
The  lightnings  are  glancing, 
The  hoar  spray  is  dancing : 
Away! 

The  whirlwind  is  rolling, 
The  thunder  is  tolling 
The  forest  is  swinging, 
The  minster-bells  ringing : 
Come  away ! 

The  Earth  is  like  ocean, 
Wreck-strewn  and  in  motion ; 
Bird,  beast,  man,  and  worm 
Have  crept  out  of  the  storm : 
Come  away ! 


406  THE  FUGITIVES. 

II. 

"  Our  boat  has  one  sail, 
And  the  helmsman  is  pale. 
A  bold  pilot,  I  trow, 
Who  should  follow  us  now  ! " 
Shouted  he. 

And  she  cried,  "  ply  the  oar ; 
Put  off  gayly  from  shore  ! " 
As  she  spoke,  bolts  of  death, 
Mixed  with  hail,  specked  their  path 
O'er  the  sea : 

And  from  isle,  tower,  and  rock 
The  blue-beacon-cloud  broke ; 
And,  though  dumb  in  the  blast, 
The  red  cannon  flashed  fast 
From  the  lee. 

in. 

And  "fear'st  thou?"  and  "fear'st  thou?" 
And  "  seest  thou  ? "  and  "  hear'st  thou  ? " 
And  "  drive  we  not  free 
O'er  the  terrible  sea, 

I  and  thou  ? " 

One  boat-cloak  did  cover 
The  loved  and  the  lover ; 
Their  blood  beats  one  measure, 
They  murmur  proud  pleasure 
Soft  and  low ; 

While  around  the  lashed  ocean, 
Like  mountains  in  motion, 
Is  withdrawn  and  uplifted, 
Sunk,  shattered,  and  shifted 
To  and  fro. 


SHE  IS  FAR   FROM  THE  LAND.  407 

IV. 

In  the  court  of  the  fortress, 
Beside  the  pale  portress, 
Like  a  bloodhound  well  beaten, 
The  bridegroom  stands,  eaten 
By  shame. 

On  the  topmost  watch-turret, 
As  a  death-boding  spirit, 
Stands  the  gray  tyrant  father : 
To  his  voice  the  mad  weather 
Seems  tame ; 

And,  with  curses  as  wild 
As  e'er  clung  to  child, 
He  devotes  to  the  blast 
The  best,  loveliest,  and  last 

Of  his  name. 

SHELLEY. 


SHE   IS   FAE   FEOM   THE   LAND. 

SHE  is  far  from  the  land  where  her  young  hero  sleeps, 

And  lovers  are  round  her  sighing ; 
But  coldly  she  turns  from  their  gaze,  and  weeps, 

For  her  heart  in  his  grave  is  lying. 

She  sings  the  wild  songs  of  her  dear  native  plains, 
Every  note  which  he  loved  awaking ;  — 

All !  little  they  think,  who  delight  in  her  strains, 
How  the  heart  of  the  minstrel  is  breaking. 

He  had  lived  for  his  love,  for  his  country  he  died, 
They  were  all  that  to  life  had  entwined  him ; 

Nor  soon  shall  the  tears  of  his  country  be  dried, 
Nor  long  will  his  love  stay  behind  him. 


408  THE  LEAF  AND  FOUNTAIN. 

Oh,  make  her  a  grave  where  the  sunbeams  rest 

When  they  promise  a  glorious  morrow ; 
They  11  shine  o'er  her  sleep,  like  a  smile  from  the  West, 

From  her  own  loved  island  of  sorrow. 

MOORE. 


THE   LEAF   AND   FOUNTAIN. 

"  TELL  me,  kind  seer,  I  pray  thee, 

So  may  the  stars  obey  thee, 

So  may  each  airy  moon-elf  and  fairy 

Nightly  their  homage  pay  thee  ! 

Say,  by  what  spell,  above,  below, 

In  stars  that  wink,  or  flowers  that  blow, 

I  may  discover,  ere  night  is  over, 

Whether  my  love  loves  me,  or  no, 

Whether  my  love  loves  me." 

"  Maiden,  the  dark  tree  nigh  thee 
Hath  charms  no  gold  could  buy  thee. 
Its  stem  enchanted,  by  moon-elves  planted, 
Will  all  thou  seek'st  supply  thee. 
Climb  to  yon  boughs  that  highest  grow, 
Bring  thence  their  fairest  leaf  below ; 
And  thou  'It  discover,  ere  night  is  over, 
Whether  thy  love  loves  thee  or  no, 
Whether  thy  love  loves  thee." 

"  See,  up  the  dark  tree  going, 

With  blossoms  round  me  blowing, 

From  thence,  0  father,  this  leaf  I  gather, 

Fairest  that  there  is  growing. 

Say,  by  what  sign  I  now  shall  know 

If  in  this  leaf  lie  bliss  or  woe ; 

And  thus  discover,  ere  night  is  over, 


CLEVELAND'S   SONG   OF  LOVE.  409 

Whether  my  love  loves  me  or  no, 
Whether  my  love  loves  me." 

"  Fly  to  yon  fount  that 's  welling 
Where  moonbeam  ne'er  had  dwelling, 
Dip  in  its  water  that  leaf,  O  daughter, 
And  mark  the  tale  'tis  telling ; 
Watch  thou  if  pale  or  bright  it  grow, 
List  thou,  the  while,  that  fountain's  flow, 
And  thou  It  discover  whether  thy  lover, 
Loved  as  he  is,  loves  thee  or  no, 
Loved  as  he  is,  loves  thee." 

Forth  flew  the  nymph,  delighted, 
To  seek  that  fount  benighted ; 
But  scarce  a  minute  the  leaf  lay  in  it, 
When,  lo,  its  bloom  was  blighted  ! 
And  as  she  asked  with  voice  of  woe, 
Listening,  the  while,  that  fountain's  flow, 
"  Shall  I  recover  my  truant  lover  ? " 
The  fountain  seemed  to  answer,  "  No ;  " 
The  fountain  answered,  "  No." 

MOORE. 

CLEVELAND'S   SONG   OF   LOVE. 

LOVE  wakes  and  weeps 

While  Beauty  sleeps  ! 
Oh  for  Music's  softest  numbers, 

To  prompt  a  theme 

For  Beauty's  dream, 
Soft  as  the  pillow  of  her  slumbers ! 

Through  groves  of  palm 
Sigh  gales  of  balm, 
Fireflies  on  the  air  are  wheeling ; 


410  THE  MAID   OF  ATHENS. 

While  through  the  gloom 
Comes  soft  perfume, 
The  distant  beds  of  flowers  revealing. 

Oh,  wake  and  live ! 

No  dream  can  give 
A  shadowed  bliss,  the  real  excelling ; 

No  longer  sleep, 

From  lattice  peep, 
And  list  the  tale  that  Love  is  telling. 

SCOTT,  TJie  Pirate. 


MAID   OF  ATHENS. 

MAID  of  Athens,  ere  we  part, 
Give,  oh,  give  me  back  my  heart! 
Or,  since  that  has  left  my  breast, 
Keep  it  now,  and  take  the  rest  ! 
Hear  my  vow  before  I  go, 
pov, 


By  those  tresses  unconfined, 
Wooed  by  each  ^Egean  wind  ; 
By  those  lids  whose  jetty  fringe 
Kiss  thy  soft  cheek's  blooming  tinge; 
By  those  wild  eyes  like  the  roe, 
fiov,  o"a<? 


By  that  lip  I  long  to  taste  ; 
By  that  zone-encircled  waist  ; 
By  all  the  token  flowers  that  tell 
What  words  can  never  speak  so  well  ; 
By  love's  alternate  joy  and  woe, 
fj,ov,   tra?  dycnrw. 


THE    TURKISH  LADY.  411 

Maid  of  Athens  !  I  am  gone  ; 
Think  of  me,  sweet  !  when  alone. 
Though  I  fly  to  Istambol, 
Athens  holds  my  heart  and  soul  : 
Can  I  cease  to  love  thee  ?     No  ! 


fjiov,   cray 

BYRON. 


THE   TUEKISH   LADY. 

'T  WAS  the  hour  when  rites  unholy 
Called  each  Paynim  voice  to  prayer, 

And  the  star  that  faded  slowly 
Left  to  dews  the  freshened  air. 

Day  her  sultry  fires  had  wasted, 

Calm  and  sweet  the  moonlight  rose ; 

Even  a  captive  spirit  tasted 
Half  oblivion  of  his  woes. 

Then  't  was  from  an  Emir's  palace 
Came  an  Eastern  lady  bright : 

She,  in  spite  of  tyrants  jealous, 
Saw  and  loved  an  English  knight. 

"  Tell  me,  captive,  why  in  anguish 
Foes  have  dragged  thee  here  to  dwell, 

Where  poor  Christians,  as  they  languish, 
Hear  no  sound  of  Sabbath  bell  ? " 

"  'T  was  on  Transylvania's  Bannat, 
When  the  Crescent  shone  afar, 

Like  a  pale,  disastrous  planet, 
O'er  the  purple  tide  of  war,  — 


412  ELLEN 'BEFORE  FITZ-JAMES, 

"  In  that  day  of  desolation, 

Lady,  I  was  captive  made ; 
Bleeding  for  my  Christian  nation 

By  the  walls  of  high  Belgrade." 

"  Captive  !  could  the  brightest  jewel 
From  my  turban  set,  thee  free  ? " 

"  Lady,  no !  —  the  gift  were  cruel, 
Eansomed,  yet  if  reft  of  thee. 

"  Say,  fair  princess  !  would  it  grieve  thee 
Christian  climes  should  we  behold  ?  " 

"  Nay,  bold  knight !  I  would  not  leave  thee 
Were  thy  ransom  paid  in  gold  !  " 

Now  in  heaven's  blue  expansion 
Eose  the  midnight  star  to  view, 

When  to  quit  her  father's  mansion 
Thrice  she  wept  and  bade  adieu  ! 

"  Fly  we  then,  while  none  discover  ! 

Tyrant  barks,  in  vain  ye  ride  ! " 
Soon  at  Ehodes  the  British  lover 

Clasped  his  blooming  Eastern  bride. 

CAMPBELL. 


ELLEN   BEFOEE   FITZ-JAMES. 

WITHIN  't  was  brilliant  all  and  light, 
A  thronging  scene  of  figures  bright ; 
It  glowed  on  Ellen's  dazzled  sight, 
As  when  the  setting  sun  has  given 
Ten  thousand  hues  to  summer  even, 


LORENZO  AND  JESSICA.  413 

And  from  their  tissue  fancy  frames 
Aerial  knights  and  fairy  dames. 
Still  by  Fitz-James  her  footing  stayed ; 
A  few  faint  steps  she  forward  made, 
Then  slow  her  drooping  head  she  raised, 
And  fearful  round  the  presence  gazed ; 
For  him  she  sought,  who  owned  this  state, 
The  dreaded  prince  whose  will  was  fate. 
She  gazed  on  many  a  princely  port, 
Might  well  have  ruled  a  royal  court; 
On  many  a  splendid  garb  she  gazed, 
Then  turned  bewildered  and  amazed, 
For  all  stood  bare ;  and,  in  the  room, 
Fitz-James  alone  wore  cap  and  plume. 
To  him  each  lady's  look  was  lent ; 
On  him  each  courtier's  eye  was  bent. 
Midst  furs,  and  silks,  and  jewels  sheen, 
He  stood,  in  simple  Lincoln-green, 
The  centre  of  the  glittering  ring. 
And  Snowdoun's  Knight  is  Scotland's  King. 

•  •  •  «  • 

SCOTT,  Lady  of  the  Lake, 


LOEENZO   AND   JESSICA. 

Lorenzo.    The  moon  shines  bright :  in  such  a  night  as  this, 
When  the  sweet  wind  did  gently  kiss  the  trees 
And  they  did  make  no  noise ;  in  such  a  night 
Troilus,  methinks,  mounted  the  Trojan  walls, 
And  sighed  his  soul  toward  the  Grecian  tents, 
Where  Cressid  lay  that  night. 

Jessica.  In  such  a  night 

Did  Thisbe  fearfully  o'ertrip  the  dew, 
And  saw  the  lion's  shadow  ere  himself, 
And  ran  dismayed  away. 


414  THE  LAND   OF  THE   SUN. 

Lorenzo.  In  such  a  night 

Stood  Dido  with  a  willow  in  her  hand 
Upon  the  wild  sea-banks  and  waft  her  love 
To  come  again  to  Carthage. 

Jessica.  In  such  a  night 

Medea  gathered  the  enchanted  herbs 
That  did  renew  old  ^Eson. 

Lorenzo.  In  such  a  night 

Did  Jessica  steal  from  the  wealthy  Jew ; 
And  with  an  uiithrift  love  did  run  from  Venice, 
As  far  as  Belmont. 

Jessica.  In  such  a  night 

Did  young  Lorenzo  swear  he  loved  her  well ; 
Stealing  her  soul  with  many  vows  of  faith, 
And  ne'er  a  true  one. 

Lorenzo.  In  such  a  night 

Did  pretty  Jessica,  like  a  little  shrew, 
Slander  her  love,  and  he  forgave  it  her. 

Jessica.   I  would  out-night  you,  did  nobody  come ; 
But,  hark !  I  hear  the  footing  of  a  man. 

SHAK.SPEARE,  Merchant  of  Venice. 
One  of  Mrs.  KEMBLE'S  best  readings. 


THE  LAND   OF   THE   SUN. 

KNOW  ye  the  land  where  the  cypress  and  myrtle 
Are  emblems  of  deeds  that  are  done  in  their  clime ; 
Where  the  rage  of  the  vulture,  the  love  of  the  turtle, 
Now  melt  into  sorrow,  now  madden  to  crime  ? 
Know  ye  the  land  of  the  cedar  and  vine, 
Where  the  flowers  ever  blossom,  the  beams  ever  shine 


THE  STAR  OF  THE  "LEGION  OF  HONOR."          415 

Where  the  light  wings  of  zephyr,  oppressed  with  perfume, 
Wax  faint  o'er  the  gardens  of  Gul  in  her  bloom ; 
Where  the  citron  and  olive  are  fairest  of  fruit, 
And  the  voice  of  the  nightingale  never  is  mute ; 
Where  the  tints  of  the  earth,  and  the  hues  of  the  sky, 
In  color  though  varied,  in  beauty  may  vie, 
And  the  purple  of  ocean  is  deepest  in  dye ; 
Where  the  virgins  are  soft  as  the  roses  they  twine, 
And  all,  save  the  spirit  of  man,  is  divine  ? 
'T  is  the  clime  of  the  east,  —  't  is  the  Land  of  the  Sun ; 
Can  he  smile  on  such  deeds  as  his  children  have  done  ? 
Oh,  wild  as  the  accents  of  lovers'  farewell 
Are  the  hearts  which  they  bear,  and  the  tales  which  they  tell ! 

BYRON,  The  Bride  of  Abydos. 


ON  THE   STAR   OF   THE  "LEGION   OF   HONOR" 

(From  the  French.) 

STAR  of  the  brave,  whose  beam  hath  shed 
Such  glory  o'er  the  quick  and  dead,  — 
Thou  radiant  and  adored  deceit, 
Which  millions  rushed  in  arms  to  greet ! 
Wild  meteor  of  immortal  birth ! 
Why  rise  in  heaven  to  set  on  earth  ? 

Before  thee  rose,  and  with  thee  grew, 

A  rainbow  of  the  loveliest  hue, 

Of  three  bright  colors,  each  divine, 

And  fit  for  that  celestial  sign; 

For  Freedom's  hand  had  blended  them, 

Like  tints  in  an  immortal  gem. 


416  MEN   OF  ENGLAND. 

One  tint  was  of  the  sunbeam's  dyes ; 
One,  the  blue  depth  of  Seraph's  eyes  ; 
One,  the  pure  Spirit's  veil  of  white 
Had  robed  in  radiance  of  its  light : 
The  three  so  mingled  did  beseem 
The  texture  of  a  heavenly  dream. 

Star  of  the  brave !  thy  ray  is  pale, 
And  darkness  must  again  prevail ! 
But,  oh,  thou  rainbow  of  the  free ! 
Our  tears  and  blood  must  flow  for  thee ; 
When  thy  bright  promise  fades  away, 
Our  life  is  but  a  load  of  clay. 


BYRON. 


MEN   OF   ENGLAND. 

MEN  of  England  !  who  inherit 

Eights  that  cost  your  sires  their  blood, 
Men  whose  undegenerate  spirit 

Has  been  proved  on  field  and  flood, 

By  the  foes  you  Ve  fought  uncounted, 
By  the  glorious  deeds  you  Ve  done, 

Trophies  captured,  breaches  mounted, 
Navies  conquered,  kingdoms  won, 

Yet,  remember,  England  gathers 

Hence  but  fruitless  wreaths  of  fame, 

If  the  freedom  of  your  fathers 

Glow  not  in  your  hearts  the  same. 


THE  BROOKSIDE.  417 

What  are  monuments  of  bravery 

Where  no  public  virtues  bloom  ? 
What  avail,  in  lands  of  slavery, 

Trophied  temples,  arch,  and  tomb  ? 

Pageants !  —  let  the  world  revere  us 

For  our  people's  rights  and  laws, 
And  the  breasts  of  civic  heroes 

Bared  in  freedom's  holy  cause. 

Yours  are  Hampden's,  Eussell's  glory; 

Sidney's  matchless  shade  is  yours,  — 
Martyrs  in  heroic  story, 

Worth  a  hundred  Agincourts. 

We  're  the  sons  of  sires  that  baffled 

Crowned  and  mitred  tyranny  ; 
They  defied  the  field  and  scaffold 

For  their  birthrights,  —  so  will  we. 

CAMPBELL. 


THE   BEOOKSIDE. 

I  WANDERED  by  the  brookside, 

I  wandered  by  the  mill ; 
I  could  not  hear  the  brook  flow,  — 

The  noisy  wheel  was  still ; 
There  was  no  burr  of  grasshopper, 

No  chirp  of  any  bird, 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

I  sat  beneath  the  elm-tree ; 

I  watched  the  long,  long  shade, 

27 


418  THE  BEECH-TREE'S  PETITION. 

And,  as  it  grew  still  longer, 

I  did  not  feel  afraid ; 
For  I  listened  for  a  footfall, 

I  listened  for  a  word,  — 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

"Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

He  came  not,  —  no,  he  came  not, — 

The  night  came  on  alone, — 
The  little  stars  sat  one  by  one, 

Each  on  his  golden  throne ; 
The  evening  wind  passed  by  my  cheek, 

The  leaves  above  were  stirred,  — 
But  the  beating  of  my  own  heart 

"Was  all  the  sound  I  heard. 

Fast  silent  tears  were  flowing, 

When  something  stood  behind ; 
A  hand  was  on  my  shoulder,  — 

I  knew  its  touch  was  kind : 
It  drew  me  nearer,  —  nearer,— 
We  did  not  speak  one  word, 
For  the  beating  of  our  own  hearts 
Was  all  the  sound  we  heard. 

LORD  HOUGHTON. 

I  heard  Lord  HOUGHTON  make  a  good  speech  in  Parliament  on  our  side  during 
the  war  of  the  Rebellion,  and  made  his  acquaintance  lately  over  here. 


THE   BEECH-TREE'S   PETITION. 

OH,  leave  this  barren  spot  to  me ! 
Spare,  woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree  ! 
Though  bush  or  floweret  never  grow 
My  dark,  unwarming  shade  below ; 


THE    WILD   GAZELLE.  419 

Nor  summer  bud  perfume  the  dew 
Of  rosy  blush,  or  yellow  hue ; 
Nor  fruits  of  autumn,  blossom-born, 
My  green  and  glossy  leaves  adorn ; 
Nor  murmuring  tribes  from  me  derive 
The  ambrosial  amber  of  the  hive : 
Yet  leave  this  barren  spot  to  me ; 
Spare,  .woodman,  spare  the  beechen  tree ! 

CAMPBELL. 


THE  WILD   GAZELLE. 

THE  wild  gazelle  on  Judah's  hills 

Exulting  yet  may  bound, 
And  drink  from  all  the  living  rills 

That  gush  on  holy  ground  ; 
Its  airy  step  and  glorious  eye 
May  glance  in  tameless  transport  by : 

A  step  as  fleet,  and  eye  more  bright, 

Hath  Judah  witnessed  there ; 
And  o'er  her  scenes  of  lost  delight 

Inhabitants  more  fair. 
The  cedars  wave  on  Lebanon, 
But  Judah's  statelier  maids  are  gone ! 

More  blest  each  palm  that  shades  those  plains 

Than  Israel's  scattered  race ; 
For,  taking  root,  it  there  remains 

In  solitary  grace : 
It  cannot  quit  its  place  of  birth, 
It  will  not  live  in  other  earth. 


420  APOSTROPHE   TO   THE   OCEAN. 

But  we  must  wander  witheringly, 

In  other  lands  to  die ; 
And  where  our  fathers'  ashes  be, 

Our  own  may  never  lie : 
Our  temple  hath  not  left  a  stone, 
And  Mockery  sits  on  Salem's  throne. 

BYRON. 


APOSTEOPHE   TO   THE   OCEAN. 


THERE  is  a  pleasure  in  the  pathless  woods, 
There  is  a  rapture  on  the  lonely  shore, 
There  is  society  where  none  intrudes 
By  the  deep  sea,  and  music  in  its  roar : 
I  love  not  man  the  less,  but  nature  more, 
From  these  our  interviews,  in  which  I  steal 
From  all  I  may  be,  or  have  been  before, 
To  mingle  with  the  universe,  and  feel 
What  I  can  ne'er  express,  yet  cannot  all  conceal. 

Eoll  on,  thou  deep  and  dark  blue  ocean,  —  roll ! 
Ten  thousand  fleets  sweep  over  thee  in  vain. 
Man  marks  the  earth  with  ruin,  —  his  control 
Stops  with  the  shore ;  upon  the  watery  plain 
The  wrecks  are  all  thy  deed,  nor  doth  remain 
A  shadow  of  man's  ravage,  save  his  own, 
When  for  a  moment,  like  a  drop  of  rain, 
He  sinks  into  thy  depths  with  bubbling  groan, 
Without  a  grave,  unknelled,  uncoffined,  and  unknown. 

And  I  have  loved  thee,  Ocean !  and  my  joy 
Of  youthful  sports  was  on  thy  breast  to  be 


ON  JORDAN'S  BANKS.  421 

Borne,  like  thy  bubbles,  onward;  from  a  boy 
I  wantoned  with  thy  breakers,  —  they  to  me 
Were  a  delight ;  and  if  the  freshening  sea 
Made  them  a  terror,  'twas  a  pleasing  fear: 
For  I  was,  as  it  were,  a  child  of  thee1, 
And  trusted  to  thy  billows  far  and  near, 
And  laid  my  hand  upon  thy  mane,  —  as  I  do  here. 

BYRON,  Childe  Harold. 
One  of  T.  T.  F.'s  favorites. 


ON  JORDAN'S   BANKS. 

ON  Jordan's  banks  the  Arab's  camels  stray, 
On  Sion's  hill  the  False  One's  votaries  pray, 
The  Baal-adorer  bows  on  Sinai's  steep,  — 
Yet  there,  even  there,  O  God !  thy  thunders  sleep. 

There,  where  thy  finger  scorched  the  tablet  stone ! 
There,  where  thy  shadow  to  thy  people  shone  I 
Thy  glory  shrouded  in  its  garb  of  fire : 
Thyself  —  none  living  see  and  not  expire ! 

Oh,  in  the  lightning  let  thy  glance  appear ; 
Sweep  from  his  shivered  hand  the  oppressor's  spear ! 
How  long  by  tyrants  shall  thy  land  be  trod  ? 
How  long  thy  temple  worshipless,  0  God  ? 

BYRON. 


422  A  RE  THUS  A. 


AKETHUSA. 


AKETHUSA  arose 

From  her  couch  of  snows 
In  the  Acroceraunian  mountains ; 

From  cloud  and  from  crag, 

With  many  a  jag, 
Shepherding  her  bright  fountains. 

She  leapt  down  the  rocks 

With  her  rainbow  locks 
Streaming  among  the  streams ; 

Her  steps  paved  with  green 

The  downward  ravine 
Which  slopes  to  the  western  gleams ; 

And,  gliding  and  springing, 

She  went,  ever  singing 
In  murmurs  as  soft  as  sleep. 

The  earth  seemed  to  love  her, 

And  heaven  smiled  above  her, 
As  she  lingered  towards  the  deep. 

Then  Alpheus  bold, 

On  his  glacier  cold, 

With  his  trident  the  mountains  strook  ; 
And  opened  a  chasm 
In  the  rocks  ;  —  w.ith  the  spasm     t 
All  Erymanthus  shook. 

And  the  black  south-wind, 

It  concealed  behind 
The  urns  of  the  silent  snow, 

And  earthquake  and  thunder 

Did  rend  in  sunder 


ARETHUSA*  423 

The  bars  of  the  springs  below ; 

The  beard  and  the  hair 

Of  the  river-god  were 
Seen  through  the  torrent's  sweep, 

As  he  followed  the  light 

Of  the  fleet  nymph's  flight 
To  the  brink  of  the  Dorian  deep. 

"  Oh,  save  me !  oh,  guide  me, 

And  bid  the  deep  hide  me, 
For  he  grasps  rne  now  by  the  hair." 

The  loud  Ocean  heard, 

To  its  blue  depth  stirred, 
And  divided  at  her  prayer ; 

And  under  the  water 

The  earth's  white  daughter 
Fled  like  a  sunny  beam ; 

Behind  her  descended 

Her  billows,  unblended 
With  the  brackish  Dorian  stream. 

Like  a  gloomy  stain 

On  the  emerald  main, 
Alpheus  rushed  behind,  — 

As  an  eagle  pursuing 

A  dove  to  its  ruin 
Down  the  streams  of  the  cloudy  wind. 

Under  the  bowers 

Where  the  ocean  powers 
Sit  on  their  pearled  thrones ; 

Through  the  coral  woods 

Of  the  weltering  floods, 
Over  heaps  of  unvalued  stones ; 


424  ARE  THUS  A. 

Through  the  dim  beams 

Which  amid  the  streams     • 
Weave  a  network  of  colored  light ; 

And  under  the  caves 

Where  the  shadowy  waves 
Are  as  green  as  the  forest's  night,  — 

Outspeeding  the  shark, 

And  the  sword-fish  dark, 
Under  the  ocean  foam ; 

And  up  through  the  rifts 

Of  the  mountain  clifts 
They  passed  to  their  Dorian  home. 

And  now  from  their  fountains 

In  Enna's  mountains, 
Down  one  vale  where  the  morning  basks, 

Like  friends  once  parted, 

Grown  single-hearted, 
They  ply  their  watery  tasks. 

At  sunrise  they  leap 

From  their  cradles  steep 
In  the  cave  of  the  shelving  hill ; 

At  noontide  they  flow 

Through  the  woods  below, 
And  the  meadows  of  asphodel ; 

And  at  night-they  sleep 

In  the  rocking  deep 
Beneath  the  Ortygian  shore ; 

Like  spirits  that  lie 

In  the  azure  sky, 
When  they  love  but  live  no  more. 

SHELLEY. 


/  AM  A    SON  OF  MARS.  425 


I    AM  A   SON   OF  MAES. 

I  AM  a  son  of  Mars,  who  have  been  in  many  wars, 
And  show  my  cuts  and  scars  wherever  I  come ; 
This  here  was  for  a  wench,  and  that  other  in  a  trench, 
When  welcoming  the  French  at  the  sound  of  the  drum. 

Lai  de  daudle,  &c. 

My  'prenticeship  I  past  where  my  leader  breathed  his  lust, 
When  the  bloody  die  was  cast  on  the  heights  of  Abram  ; 
I  served  out  my  trade  when  the  gallant  game  was  played, 
And  the  Moro  low  was  laid  at  the  sound  of  the  drum. 

Lai  de  daudle,  &c. 

I  lastly  was  with  Curtis,  among  the  floating  batteries, 
And  there  I  left  for  witnesses  an  arm  and  a  limb ; 
Yet  let  my  country  need  me,  with  Elliot  to  head  me, 
I  'd  clatter  on  my  stumps  at  the  sound  of  the  drum. 

Lai  de  daudle,  &c. 

And  now,  though  I  must  beg,  with  a  wooden  arm  and  leg, 
And  many  a  tattered  rag  hanging  over  my  bum, 
I  'm  as  happy  with  my  wallet,  my  bottle,  and  my  callet, 
As  when  I  used  in  scarlet  to  follow  the  drum. 

Lai  de  daudle,  &c. 

What  though  with  hoary  locks  I  must  stand  the  winter  shocks, 
Beneath  the  woods  and  rocks  oftentimes  for  a  home, 
When  the  t'  other  bag  I  sell,  and  the  t'  other  bottle  tell, 
I  could  meet  a  troop  of  h —  at  the  sound  of  the  drum. 

BURNS,  Jolly  Beggars. 


426  EPITAPH. 


A   SKETCH. 

BORN  in  the  garret,  iri  the  kitchen  bred, 
Promoted  thence  to  deck  her  mistress'  head ; 
Next — for  some  gracious  service  unexpressed, 
And  from  its  wages  only  to  be  guessed  — 
Eaised  from  the  toilet  to  the  table,  where 
Her  wondering  betters  wait  behind  her  chair. 
With  eye  unmoved,  and  forehead  unabashed, 
She  dines  from  off  the  plate  she  lately  washed. 
Quick  with  the  tale,  and  ready  with  the  lie, 
The  genial  confidante  and  general  spy. 
Who  could,  ye  gods  !  her  next  employment  guess  — 
An  only  infant's  earliest  governess  ! 
She  taught  the  child  to  read,  and  taught  so  well, 
That  she  herself,  by  teaching,  learned  to  spell. 

BYRON. 


EPITAPH. 

UNDERNEATH  this  stone  doth  lye 

As  much  beauty  as  could  dye ; 

Which  in  life  did  harbor  give 

To  more  virtue  than  doth  live. 

If  at  all  she  had  a  fault, 

Leave  it  buried  in  this  vault. 

One  name  was  Elizabeth ; 

The  other  —  let  it  sleep  with  death  : 

Fitter,  where  it  dyed  to  tell, 

Than  that  it  lived  at  all.     Farewell ! 

BEN  JONSON. 


NORA'S   VOW.  427 

NORA'S  VOW. 

AIR  :  "Cha  teid  mis  a  chaoidh." 

In  the  original  Gaelic,  the  Lady  makes  protestations  that  she  will  not  go  with 
the  Red  Earl's  son,  until  the  swan  should  build  in  the  cliff  and  the  eagle  in  the 
lake,  until  one  mountain  should  change  places  with  another,  and  so  forth.  It  is 
but  fair  to  add  that  there  is  no  authority  for  supposing  that  she  altered  her  mind  — 
except  the  vehemence  of  her  protestation. 

HEAK  what  Highland  Nora  said,  — 
"The  Earlie's  son  I  will  not  wed, 
Should  all  the  race  of  nature  die, 
And  none  be  left  but  he  and  I. 
For  all  the  gold,  for  all  the  gear, 
And  all  the  lands  both  far  and  near, 
That  ever  valor  lost  or  won, 
I  would  not  wed  the  Earlie's  son." 

"  A  maiden's  vows,"  old  Callum  spoke, 
"  Are  lightly  made  and  lightly  broke. 
The  heather  on  the  mountain's  height 
Begins  to  bloom  in  purple  light ; 
The  frost-wind  soon  shall  sweep  away 
That  lustre  deep  from  glen  and  brae : 
Yet  Nora,  ere  its  bloom  be  gone, 
May  blithely  wed  the  Earlie's  son."  — 

"The  swan,"  she  said,  "the  lake's  clear  breast 
May  barter  for  the  eagle's  nest ; 
The  Awe's  fierce  stream  may  backward  turn, 
Ben-Cruaichan  fall,  and  crush  Kilchurn  ; 
Our  kilted  clans,  when  blood  is  high, 
Before  their  foes  may  turn  and  fly  : 
But  I,  wero  all  these  marvels  done, 
Would  never  wed  the  Earlie's  son." 


428  ADDRESS    TO    THE    UNCO   QUID. 

Still  in  the  water-lily's  shade 

Her  wonted  nest  the  wild  swan  made ; 

Ben-Cruaichan  stands  as  fast  as  ever, 

Still  downward  foams  the  Awe's  fierce  river  ; 

To  shun  the  clash  of  foemau's  steel, 

No  Highland  brogue  has  turned  the  heel : 

But  Nora's  heart  is  lost  and  won,  — 

She 's  wedded  to  the  Earlie's  son. 

SCOTT. 


ADDRESS   TO   THE   UNCO   GUID,   OR   THE    RIGIDLY 
RIGHTEOUS. 

My  son,  these  maxims  make  a  rule, 

And  lump  them  aye  thegither  : 
The  Rigid  Righteous  is  a  fool, 

The  Rigid  Wise  anither. 
The  cleanest  corn  that  e'er  was  dight 

May  hue  some  pyles  o'  caff  in  ; 
So  ne'er  a  fellow  creature  slight 

For  random  fits  o'  damn. 

SOLOMON,  Eccles.  vii.  16. 

O  YE  wha  are  sae  guid  yoursel', 

Sae  pious  and  sae  holy, 
Ye  've  nought  to  do  but  mark  and  tell 

Your  neebour's  fauts  and  folly  ! 
Whase  life  is  like  a  weel-gaun  mill, 

Supplied  wi'  store  o'  water, 
The  heapet  happer  's  ebbing  still, 

And  still  the  clap  plays  clatter. 

Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man, 

Still  gentler  sister  woman ; 
Tho'  they  may  gang  a  kennie  wrang, 

To  step  aside  is  human : 


THE  DEIL  'S  AWA'  WP  THE  EXCISEMAN.          429 

One  point  must  still  be  greatly  dark, 

The  moving  why  they  do  it ; 
And  just  as  lamely  can  ye  mark 

How  far  perhaps  they  rue  it. 

Who  made  the  heart,  't  is  He  alone 

Decidedly  can  try  us ; 
He  knows  each  chord  —  its  various  tone, 

Each  spring  —  its  various  bias. 
Then  at  the  balance  let 's  be  mute ; 

We  never  can  adjust  it ; 
What 's  done  we  partly  may  compute, 

But  know  not  what 's  resisted. 

BURNS. 


THE  DEIL'S  AWA'  WI'  THE  EXCISEMAN. 

THE  Deil  cam  fiddling  through  the  town, 
And  danced  awa'  wi'  the  Exciseman ; 

And  ilka  wife  cried,  "  Auld  Mahoun, 
We  wish  you  luck  o'  your  prize,  man. 

"  We  '11  mak  our  maut,  and  brew  our  drink, 
We  '11  dance  and  sing  and  rejoice,  man ; 

And  monie  thanks  to  the  muckle  black  Deil 
That  daflced  awa'  wi'  the  Exciseman. 

"  There 's  threesome  reels,  and  foursome  reels, 

There 's  hornpipes  and  strathspeys,  man ; 
But  the  ae  best  dance  e'er  cam  to  our  Ian', 
Was,  '  The  Deil 's  awa'  wi'  the  Exciseman.' 
We  '11  mak  our  maut,"  &c. 

BURNS. 


430  THE  DEVIL'S    THOUGHTS. 


THE  DEVIL'S   THOUGHTS. 

FKOM  his  brimstone  bed  at  break  of  day 

A  walking  the  Devil  is  gone, 
To  visit  his  snug  little  farm,  the  earth, 

And  see  how  his  stock  goes  on. 

Over  the  hill  and  over  the  dale, 

And  he  went  over  the  plain  ; 
And  backward  and  forward  he  switched  his  long  tail, 

As  a  gentleman  switches  his  cane. 

And  how  then  was  the  Devil  drest? 

Oh,  he  was  in  his  Sunday's  best : 

His  jacket  was  red,  and  his  breeches  were  blue, 

And  there  was  a  hole  where  the  tail  came  through. 

He  saw  a  lawyer  killing  a  viper 

On  a  dunghill  hard  by  his  own  stable ; 

And  the  Devil  smiled,  for  it  put  him  in  mind 
Of  Cain  and  his  brother  Abel. 

He  saw  an  apothecary  on  a  white  horse 

Ride  by  on  his  vocations ; 
And  the  Devil  thought  of  his  old  friend 

Death,  in  the  Revelations. 

He  saw  a  cottage  with  a  double  coach-house, 

A  cottage  of  gentility ; 
And  the  Devil  did  grin,  for  his  darling  sin 

Is  pride  that  apes  humility. 


THE  DEVIL'S   THOUGHTS.  431 

He  peeped  into  a  rich  bookseller's  shop ; 

Quoth  he,  "  We  are  both  of  one  college ! 
For  I  sate  myself,  like  a  cormorant,  once, 

Hard  by  the  tree  of  knowledge." 

Down  the  river  did  glide,  with  wind  and  with  tide, 

A  pig  with  vast  celerity ; 

And  the  Devil  looked  wise  as  he  saw  how,  the  while, 
It  cut  its  own  throat.    "  There ! "  quoth  he  with  a  smile, 

"  Goes  England's  commercial  prosperity." 

As  he  went  through  Cold-bath  Fields 

He  saw  a  solitary  cell ; 
And  the  Devil  was  pleased,  for  it  gave  him  a  hint 

For  improving  his  prisons  in  hell. 

He  saw  a  turnkey  in  a  trice 

Fetter  a  troublesome  blade  ; 
"  Nimbly,"  quoth  he,  "  do  the  fingers  move 

If  a  man  be  but  used  to  his  trade." 

He  saw  the  same  turnkey  unfetter  a  man 

With  but  little  expedition  ; 
Which  put  him  in  mind  of  the  long  debate 

On  the  slave-trade  abolition. 

He  saw  an  old  acquaintance 

.As  he  passed  by  a  Methodist  meeting ; 
She  holds  a  consecrated  key, 

And  the  Devil  nods  her  a  greeting. 

She  turned  up  her  nose,  and  said, 

"  Avaunt !  my  name  's  Religion," 
And  she  looked  to  Mr. , 

And  leered  like  a  love-sick  pigeon. 


432  MERRILY  BOUNDS   THE  BARK. 

He  .saw  a  certain  minister 

(A  minister  to  his  mind) 
Go  up  into  a  certain  house, 

With  a  majority  behind; 

The  Devil  quoted  Genesis, 

Like  a  very  learned  clerk, 
How  "  N*oah  and  his  creeping  things 

Went  up  into  the  ark." 

He  took  from  the  poor, 

And  he  gave  to  the  rich, 
And  he  shook  hands  with  a  Scotchman, 

For  he  was  not  afraid  of  the  — — . 

General 's  burning  face 

He  saw  with  consternation, 
And  back  to  hell  his  way  did  he  take ; 
For  the  Devil  thought,  by  a  slight  mistake, 

It  was  a  general  conflagration. 

COLEEIDGE. 

Supposed  to  be  by  COLERIDGE,  but  partly  claimed  by  other  poets. 


MERRILY  BOUNDS  THE  BAEK. 

MEEEILY,  merrily  bounds  the  bark, 

She  bounds  before  the  gale; 
The  mountain  breeze  from  Ben-na-darch 

Is  joyous  in  her  sail ! 
With  fluttering  sound  like  laughter  hoarse, 

The  cords  and  canvas  strain ; 


ALLEN-A-DALE.  433 

The  waves,  divided  by  her  force, 

In  rippling  eddies  chased  her  course, 

As  if  they  laughed  again. 

Not  down  the  breeze  more  blithely  flew, 

Skimming  the  wave,  the  light  sea-mew, 

Than  the  gay  galley  bore 
Her  course  upon  that  favoring  wind, 
And  Coolin's  crest  has  sunk  behind, 

And  Slapin's  caverned  shore. 
'T  was  then  that  warlike  signals  wake 
Dunscaith's  dark  towers  and  Eisord's  lake, 
And  soon,  from  Cavilgarrigh's  head, 
Thick  wreaths  of  eddying  smoke  were  spread : 
A  summons  these  of  war  and  wrath 
To  the  brave  clans  of  Sleat  and  Strath ; 

And,  ready  at  the  sight, 
Each  warrior  to  his  weapons  sprung, 
And  targe  upon  his  shoulder  flung, 

Impatient  for  the  fight. 
MacKinnon's  chief,  in  warfare  gray, 
Had  charge  to  muster  their  array, 
And  guide  their  barks  to  Brodick  Bay. 

SCOTT,  The  Lord  of  the  Isles. 


ALLEN-A-DALE. 

ALLEN-A-DALE  has  no  fagot  for  burning, 
Allen-a-Dale  has  no  furrow  for  turning, 
Allen-a-Dale  has  no  fleece  for  the  spinning, 
Yet  Allen-a-Dale  has  red  gold  for  the  winning. 
Come,  read  me  my  riddle ;  come,  hearken  riiy  tale ; 
And  tell  me  the  craft  of  bold  Allen-a-Dale. 

28 


434  ALLEN-A-DALE. 

The  Baron  of  Ravensworth  prances -in  pride, 
And  he  views  his  domains  upon  Arkindale  side,  — 
The  mere  for  his  net,  and  the  land  for  his  .game, 
The  chase  for  the  wild,  and  the  park  for  the  tame ; 
Yet  the  fish  of  the  lake  and  the  deer  of  the  vale 
Are  less  free  to  Lord  Dacre  than  Allen-a-Dale. 

Allen-a-Dale  was  ne'er  belted  a  knight, 

Though  his  spurs  be  as  sharp,  and  his  blade  be  as  bright. 

Allen-a-Dale  is  no  baron  or  lord, 

Yet  twenty  tall  yeomen  will  draw  at  his  word ; 

And  the  best  of  our  nobles  his  bonnet  will  veil, 

Who  at  Eere-cross  on  Stanmore  meets  Allen-a-Dale. 

Allen-a-Dale  to  his  wooing  is  come ; 
The  mother,  she  asked  of  his  household  and  home : 
"  Though  the  castle  of  Richmond  stand  fair  on  the  hill, 
My  hall,"  quoth  bold  Allen,  "  shows  gallanter  still ; 
'T  is  the  blue  vault  of  heaven,  with  its  crescent  so  pale, 
And  with  all  its  bright  spangles  ! "  said  Allen-a-Dale. 

The  father  was  steel,  and  the  mother  was  stone ; 
They  lifted  the  latch,  and  they  bade  him  be  gone ; 
But  loud,  on  the  morrow,  their  wail  and  their  cry : 
He  had  laughed  on  the  lass  with  his  bonnie  black  eye, 
And  she  fled  to  the  forest  to  hear  a  love-tale ; 
And  the  youth  it  was  told  by  was  Allen-a-Dale. 

SCOTT,  Eokeby. 


EXTRACT  FROM  "GERTRUDE   OF  WYOMING."      435 


EXTEACT  FROM   "GERTRUDE   OF  WYOMING." 

"AND  I  could  weep,"  the  Oneida  chief 

His  descant  wildly  thus  begun, 
"  But  that  I  may  not  stain  with  grief 
The  death-song  of  my  father's  son, 

Or  bow  this  head  in  woe  ! 
For  by  my  wrongs  and  by  my  wrath 
To-morrow  Areouski's  breath 
(That  fires  yon  heaven  with  storms  of  death) 

Shall  light  us  to  the  foe ; 
And  we  shall  share,  my  Christian  boy, 
The  foeman's  blood,  the  avenger's  joy  ! 

"  But  thee,  my  flower,  whose  breath  was  given 

By  milder  genii  o'er  the  deep, 
The  spirits  of  the  white  man's  heaven 

Forbid  not  thee  to  weep  ; 

Nor  will  the  Christian  host, 
Nor  will  thy  father's  spirit  grieve, 
To  see  thee,  on  the  battle's  eve, 
Lamenting,  take  a  mournful  leave 
Of  her  who  loved  thee  most : 
She  was  the  rainbow  to  thy  sight ! 
Thy  sun  —  thy  heaven  —  of  lost  delight ! 

"  But,  hark,  the  trump  !  —  to-morrow  thou 
In  glory's  fires  shalt  dry  thy  tears ; 

Even  from  the  land  of  shadows  now 
My  father's  awful  ghost  appears, 

Amidst  the  clouds  that  round  us  roll ; 


436  MACGREGOR'S   GATHERING. 

He  bids  my  soul  f OT  battle  thirst,  — 
He  bids  me  dry  the  last,  tlie  first, 
The  only  tears  that  ever  burst 

From  Outalissi's  soul ; 
Because  I  may  not  stain  with  grief 
The  death-song  of  an  Indian  chief  1 " 

CAMPBELL. 


MACGREGOR'S   GATHERING. 

AIR  :  "  Thain'  a  Grigalach." 

These  verses  are  adapted  to  a  very  wild,  yet  lively  gathering-tune,  used  by  the 
MacGregors.  The  severe  treatment  of  this  clan,  their  outlawry,  and  the  proscrip- 
tion of  their  very  name,  are  alluded  to  in  the  ballad. 

THE  moon 's  on  the  lake,  and  the  mist 's  on  the  brae, 
,         And  the  clan  has  a  name  that  is  nameless  by  day ; 
Then  gather,  gather,  gather,  Grigalach  ! 
Gather,  gather,  gather,  &c. 

Our  signal  for  fight,  that  from  monarchs  we  drew, 
Must  be  heard  but  by  night  in  our  vengeful  haloo ! 

Then  haloo,  Grigalach  !  haloo,  Grigalach ! 

Haloo,  haloo,  haloo,  &c. 

Glen  Orchy's  proud  mountains,  Coalchuirn  and  her  towers, 
Glenstrae  and  Glenlyon  no  longer  are  ours ; 

We  're  landless,  landless,  landless,  Grigalach  ! 

Landless,  landless,  landless,  &c. 

But  doomed  and  devoted  by  vassal  and  lord, 
MacGregor  has  still  both  his  heart  and  his  sword ! 

Then  courage,  courage,  courage,  Grigalach  ! 

Courage,  courage,  courage,  &c. 


O'CONNOR'S  CHILD.  437 

If  they  rob  us  of  name,  and  pursue  us  with  beagles, 

Give  their  roofs  to  the  flame,  and  their  flesh  to  the  eagles ! 

Then  vengeance,  vengeance,  vengeance,  Grigalach ! 

Vengeance,  vengeance,  vengeance,  &c. 

While  there 's  leaves  in  the  forest,  and  foam  on  the  river, 
MacGregor,  despite  them,  shall  flourish  forever ! 

Come  then,  Grigalach  !  come  then,  Grigalach ! 

Come  then,  come  then,  come  then,  &c. 

Through  the  depths  of  Loch  Katrine  the  steed  shall  career, 
O'er  the  peak  of  Ben-Lomond  the  galley  shall  steer, 
And  the  rocks  of  Craig-Eoyston  like  icicles  melt, 
Ere  our  wrongs  be  forgot,  or  our  vengeance  unfelt. 
Then  gather,  gather,  gather,  Grigalach  ! 

Gather,  gather,  gather,  &c. 

SCOTT. 
No  one  who  heard  Mr.  ANGIEII  will  ever  forget  it. 


O'CONNOR'S   CHILD. 

WHEN  all  was  hushed  at  eventide 

I  heard  the  baying  of  their  beagle ; 
"  Be  hushed ! "  my  Connocht  Moran  cried, 

"  'T  is  but  the  screaming  of  the  eagle." 
Alas !  't  was  not  the  eyrie's  sound ; 

Their  bloody  bands  had  tracked  us  out ; 
Up  listening  starts  our  couchant  hound, — 

And,  hark  !  again  that  nearer  shout 
Brings  faster  on  the  murderers. 

Spare  —  spare  him  !     Brazil,  —  Desmond  fierce 
In  vain  —  no  voice  the  adder  charms ; 


438  O'CONNOR'S   CHILD. 

Their  weapons  crossed  my  sheltering  arms ; 

Another's  sword  has  laid  him  low,  — 
Another's  and  another's ; 

And  every  hand  that  dealt  the  blow, 
Ah  me !  it  was  a  brother's  ! 
Yes,  when  his  moanings  died  away, 
Their  iron  hands  had  dug  the  clay, 
And  o'er  his  burial  turf  they  trod ; 
And  I  beheld  —  O  God !  0  God !  — 
His  life-blood  oozing  from  the  sod. 

Warm  in  his  death-wounds  sepulchred, 

Alas  !  my  warrior's  spirit  brave 
Nor  mass  nor  ulla-lulla  heard, 
(  Lamenting,  soothe  his  grave. 

I  heard  the  Saxon's  trumpet  sound, 
And  ranged,  as  to  the  judgment-seat, 

My  guilty,  trembling  brothers  round. 

Clad  in  the  helm  and  shield  they  came ; 

For  now  De  Bourgo's  sword  and  flame 

Had  ravaged  Ulster's  boundaries, 

And  lighted  up  the  midnight  skies. 

The  standard  of  O'Connor's  sway 

Was  in  the  turret  where  I  lay ; 

That  standard,  with  so  dire  a  look, 
As  ghastly  shone  the  moon  and  pale, 

I  gave,  that  every  bosom  shook 
Beneath  its  iron  mail. 

"  And  go ! "  I  cried,  "  the  combat  seek, 

Ye  hearts  that  unappalled  bore 
The  anguish  of  a  sister's  shriek,  — 
Go,  and  return  no  more ! 


O'CONNOR'S   CHILD.  439 

For  sooner  guilt  the  ordeal  brand 

Shall  grasp  unhurt,  than  ye  shall  hold 

The  banner  with  victorious  hand, 
Beneath  a  sister's  curse  unrolled. 

0  stranger !  by  my  country's  loss, 
And  by  my  love  and  by  the  cross ! 

1  swear  I  never  could  have  spoke 
The  curse  that  severed  Nature's  yoke, 
But  that  a  spirit  o'er  me  stood, 

And  fired  me  with  the  wrathful  mood ; 
And  frenzy  to  my  heart  was  given, 
To  speak  the  malison  of  Heaven. 


A  bolt  that  overhung  our  dome 

Suspended  till  my  curse  was  given, 
Soon  as  it  passed  these  lips  of  foam, 

Pealed  in  the  blood-red  heaven. 
Dire  was  the  look  that  o'er  their  backs 

The  angry  parting  brothers  threw ; 
But  now,  behold !  like  cataracts, 

Come  down  the  hills  in  view  • 
O'Connor's  plumed  partisans ; 
Thrice  ten  Kilnagorvian  clans 

Were  marching  to  their  doom. 
A  sudden  storm  their  plumage  tossed, 
A  flash  of  lightning  o'er  them  crossed, 


And  all  again  was  gloom. 


CAMPBELL. 


Some  one  who  underrates  SCOTT,  and  finds  but  one  line  of  good  poetiy  written 
by  him,  locates  it  in  his  "  Helvellyn."  If  called  upon  to  criticise  CAMPBELL,  I 
should  put  his  best  line  in  this  poem. 


440  GLENFINLAS. 

GLENFINLAS; 

OR,  LOED  RONALD'S  CORONACH. 

FROM  distant  isles  a  chieftain  came 
The  joys  of  Eonald's  halls  to  find, 

And  chase  with  him  the  dark-brown  game 
That  bounds  o'er  Albin's  hills  of  wind. 

'T  was  Moy  ;  whom  in  Columba's  isle 
The  seer's  prophetic  spirit  found, 

As  with  a  minstrel's  fire  the  while 

He  waked. his  harp's  harmonious  sound. 

Full  many  a  spell  to  him  was  known, 
Which  wandering  spirits  shrink  to  hear ; 

And  many  a  lay  of  potent  tone, 
Was  never  meant  for  mortal  ear; 

Oh,  so  it  fell,  that  on  a  day, 

To  rouse  the  red  deer  from  their  den, 

The  chiefs  have  ta'en  their  distant  way, 
And  scoured  the  deep  Glenfinlas  glen. 

No  vassals  wait  their  sports  to  aid, 

To  watch  their  safety,  deck  their  board : 

Their  simple  dress,  the  Highland  plaid  ; 
Their  trusty  guard,  the  Highland  sword. 

Soft  fell  the  night,  the  sky  was  calm, 
When  three  successive  days  had  flown ; 

And  summer  mist  in  dewy  balm 

Steeped  heathy  bank  and  mossy  stone. 


GLENFINLAS.  441 

The  moon,  half  hid  in  silvery  flakes, 

Afar  her  dubious  radiance  shed, 

Quivering  on  Katrine's  distant  lakes, 

And  resting  on  Ben-Ledi's  head. 

"  What  lack  we  here  to  crown  our  bliss, 
While  thus  the  pulse  of  joy  beats  high  ? 

What,  but  fair  woman's  yielding  kiss, 
Her  panting  breath  and  melting  eye  ? 

"  Long  have  I  sought  sweet  Mary's  heart, 
And  dropped  the  tear,  and  heaved  the  sigh ; 

But  vain  the  lover's  wily  art, 
Beneath  a  sister's  watchful  eye. 

"  But  thou  mayst  teach  that  guardian  fail', 

While  far  with  Mary  I  am  flown, 
Of  other  hearts  to  cease  her  care, 

And  find  it  hard  to  guard  her  own. 


"  And  thou,  who  bidst  me  think  of  bliss, 
And  bidst  my  heart  awake  to  glee, 

And  court,  like  thee,  the  wanton  kiss  — 
That  heart,  0  Ronald,  bleeds  for  thee  !  " 

Sudden  the  hounds  erect  their  ears, 

And  sudden  cease  their  moaning  howl ; 

Close  pressed  to  Moy,  they  mark  their  fears 
By  shivering  limbs  and  stifled  growl. 

And  by  the  watch-fire's  glimmering  light, 
Close  by  the  minstrel's  side  was  seen 


442  GLENFINLAS. 

An  huntress  maid,  in  beauty  bright, 
All  dropping  wet  her  robes  of  green. 


With  maiden  blush,  she  softly  said, 
"  0  gentle  huntsman,  hast  thou  seen, 

In  deep  Glenfinlas'  moonlight  glade, 
A  lovely  maid  in  vest  of  green  : 

"  With  her  a  chief  in  Highland  pride ; 

His  shoulders  bear  the  hunter's  bow, 
The  mountain  dirk  adorns  his  side, 

Far  on  the  wind  his"  tartans  flow  ? " 

"  And  who  art  thou  ?  and  who  are  they  ?  " 

All  ghastly  gazing,  Moy  replied : 
"  And  why,  beneath  the  moon's  pale  ray, 

Dare  ye  thus  roam  Glenfinlas'  side  ? " 

"  Where  wild  Loch  Katrine  pours  her  tide, 
Blue,  dark,  and  deep,  round  many  an  isle, 

Our  father's  towers  o'erhang  her  side, 
The  castle  of  the  bold  Glengyle. 

"  To  chase  the  dun  Glenfinlas  deer, 

Our  woodland  course  this  morn  we  bore, 

And  haply  met,  while  wandering  here, 
The  son  of  great  Macgillianore. 

"  Oh,  aid  me,  then,  to  seek  the  pair 
Whom,  loitering  in  the  woods,  I  lost ; 

Alone,  I  dare  not  venture  there, 

Where  walks,  they  say,  the  shrieking  ghost." 


GLENFINLAS.  443 

"  Yes,  many  a  shrieking  ghost  walks  there ; 

Then,  first,  my  own  sad  vow  to  keep, 
Here  will  I  pour  my  midnight  prayer, 

Which  still  must  rise  when  mortals  sleep." 

"  Oh,  shame  to  knighthood,  strange  and  foul ! 

Go,  doff  the  bonnet  from  thy  brow, 
And  shroud  thee  in  the  monkish  cowl, 

Which  best  befits  thy  sullen  vow. 

"  Not  so,  by  high  Dtinlathmon's  fire, 

Thy  heart  was  froze  to  love  and  joy, 
When  gayly  rung  thy  raptured  lyre 

To  wanton  Morna's  melting  eye." 

Wild  stared  the  minstrel's  eyes  of  flame, 

And  high  his  sable  locks  arose, 
And  quick  his  color  went  and  came, 

As  fear  and  rage  alternate  rose. 

"  And  thou !  when  by  the  blazing  oak 

I  lay,  to  her  and  love  resigned, 
Say,  rode  ye  on  the  eddying  smoke, 

Or  saile'd  ye  on  the  midnight  wind  ? 

"  Not  thine  a  race  of  mortal  blood, 

Nor  old  Glengyle's  pretended  line ; 
Thy  dame,  the  Lady  of  the  Flood  — 

Thy  sire,  the  Monarch  of  the  Mine." 

And,  bending  o'er  his  harp,  he  flung 

His  wildest  witch-notes  on  the  wind ; 
And  loud  and  high  and  strange  they  rung, 

As  many  a  magic  change  they  find. 


444  AN  ODE. 

Tall  waxed  the  Spirit's  altering  form, 
Till  to  the  roof  her  stature  grew  ; 

Then,  mingling  with  the  rising  storm, 
With  one  wild  yell  away  she  flew. 

Eain  beats,  hail  rattles,  whirlwinds  tear : 
The  slender  hut  in  fragments  flew ; 

But  not  a  lock  of  Moy's  loose  hair 
Was  waved  by  wind,  or  wet  by  dew. 

Wild  mingling  with  the  howling  gale, 
Loud  bursts  of  ghastly  laughter  rise  ; 

High  o'er  the  minstrel's  head  they  sail, 
And  die  amid  the  northern  skies. 


AN  ODE. 

(From  the  French.) 

AND  thou,  too,  of  the  snow-white  plume ! 
Whose  realm  refused  thee  even  a  tomb, 
Better  hadst  thou  still  been  leading 
France  o'er  hosts  of  hirelings  bleeding, 
Than  sold  thyself  to  death'  and  shame 
For  a  meanly  royal  name ; 
Such  as  he  of  Naples  wears, 
Who  thy  blood-bought  title  bears. 
Little  didst  thou  deem,  when  dashing 
On  thy  war-horse  through  the  ranks, 
Like  a  stream  which  burst  its  banks, 
While  helmets  cleft,  and  sabres  clashing, 
Shone  and  shivered  fast  around  thee, 
Of  the  fate  at  last  which  found  thee ! 


SCOTT. 


THE   CONTEST  IN  ROKEBY  HALL.  445 

Was  that  haughty  plume  laid  low 

By  a  slave's  dishonest  blow  ? 

Once,  as  the  moon  sways  o'er  the  tide, 

It  rolled  in  air,  the  warrior's  guide ; 

Through  the  smoke-created  night 

Of  the  black  and  sulphurous  fight, 

The  soldier  raised  his  seeking  eye 

To  catch  that  crest's  ascendency ; 

And  as  it  onward  rolling  rose, 

So  moved  his  heart  upon  our  foes. 

There,  where  death's  brief  pang  was  quickest, 

And  the  battle's  wreck  lay  thickest, 

Strewed  beneath  the  advancing  banner 

Of  the  eagle's  burning  crest,  — 

(There  with  thunder-clouds  to  fan  her, 

Who  could  then  her  wing  arrest, 

Victory  beaming  from  her  breast  ?) 

While  the  broken  line  enlarging 

Fell,  or  fled  along  the  plain,  — 

There  be  sure  was  Murat  charging ! 

There  he  ne'er  shall  charge  again ! 

.  •  •  .  • 

BYRON. 


THE  CONTEST  IN  EOKEBY  HALL. 
.  »  •  .  « 

"  HARPER  !  methinks  thy  magic  lays," 
Matilda  said,  "  can  goblins  raise ! 
Wellnigh  my  fancy  can  discern 
Near  the  dark  porch  a  visage  stern ; 
E'en  now,  in  yonder  shadowy  nook, 
I  see  it !  —  Eedmond,  Wilfrid,  look !  — 


446  THE   CONTEST  IN  ROKEBY  HALL. 

A  human  form  distinct  and  clear — 

God,  for  thy  mercy  !  —  It  draws  near  ! " 

She  saw  too  true.     Stride  after  stride, 

The  centre  of  that  chamber  wide 

Fierce  Bertram  gained ;  then  made  a  stand, 

And,  proudly  waving  with  his  hand, 

Thundered :  "  Be  still,  upon  your  lives  !  — 

He  bleeds  who  speaks ;  he  dies  who  strives." 

Behind  their  chief  the  robber  crew 

Forth  from  the  darkened  portal  drew 

In  silence,  save  that  echo  dread 

Returned  their  heavy  measured  tread. 

The  lamp's  uncertain  lustre  gave 

Their  arms  to  gleam,  their  plumes  to  wave ; 

File  after  file  in  order  pass, 

Like  forms  on  Banquo's  mystic  glass. 

Then,  halting  at  their  leader's  sign, 

At  once  they  formed  and  curved  their  line, 

Hemming  within  its  crescent  drear 

Their  victims,,  like  a  herd  of  deer. 

Another  sign,  and  to  the  aim 

Levelled  at  once  their  muskets  came, 

As  waiting  but  their  chieftain's  word 

To  make  their  fatal  volley  heard. 


Back  in  a  heap  the  menials  drew ; 

Yet,  even  in  mortal  terror,  true, 

Their  pale  and  startled  group  oppose 

Between  Matilda  and  the  foes 

"  Oh,  haste  thee,  Wilfrid ! "  Eedmond  cried ; 

"  Undo  that  wicket  by  thy  side  ! 

Bear  hence  Matilda,  —  gain  the  wood,  — 

The  pass  may  be  awhile  made  good,  — 


THE   CONTEST  IN  ROKEBY  HALL.  447 

Thy  band,  ere  this,  must  sure  be  nigh,  — 
Oh,  speak  not,  dally  not,  — but  fly .!" 


What  sounds  upon  the  midnight  wind 
Approach  so  rapidly  behind  ? 
It  is  —  it  is  the  tramp  ^of  steeds. 
Matilda  hears  the  sound,  she  speeds, 
Seizes  upon  the  leader's  rein,  — 
"  Oh,  haste  to  aid,  ere  aid  be  vain ! 
Fly  to  the  postern,  —  gain  the  Hall ! " 
From  saddle  spring  the  troopers  all ; 
Their  gallant  steeds,  at  liberty, 
Run  wild  along  the  moonlight  lea. 
But,  ere  they  burst  upon  the  scene, 
Full  stubborn  had  the  conflict  been. 


Wilfrid  has  fallen,  —  but  o'er  him  stood 

Young  Redmond,  soiled  with  smoke  and  blood, 

Cheering  his  mates  with  heart  and  hand 

Still  to  make  good  their  desperate  stand. 

"  Up,  comrades,  up !     In  Rokeby  halls 

Ne'er  be  it  said  our  courage  falls. 

What !  faint  ye  for  their  savage  cry, 

Or  do  the  smoke-wreaths  daunt  your  eye  ? 

These  rafters  have  returned  a  shout 

As  loud  at  Rokeby's  wassail  rout, 

As  thick  a  smoke  these  hearths  have  given 

At  Hallow-tide  or  Christmas-even. 

Stand  to  it  yet !  renew  the  fight, 

For  Rokeby's  and  Matilda's  right ! 

These  slaves !  they  dare  not,  hand  to  hand, 

Bide  buffet  from  a  true  man's  brand." 


448  BOAT  SONG. 

Impetuous,  active,  fierce,  and  young, 
Upon  the  advancing  foes  he  sprung. 
"Woe  to  the  wretch  at  whom  is  bent 
His  brandished  falchion's  sheer  descent ! 
Backward  they  scattered  as  he  came, 
Like  wolves  before  the  levin  flame, 
When,  'mid  their  howling  conclave  driven, 
Hath  glanced  the  thunderbolt  of  heaven. 
Bertram  rushed  on,  —  but  Harpool  clasped 
His  knees,  although  in  death  he  gasped, 
His  falling  corpse  before  'him  flung, 
And  round  the  trammelled  ruffian  clung. 
Just  then  the  soldiers  filled  the  dome, 
And,  shouting,  charged  the  felons  home 
So  fiercely,  that,  in  panic  dread, 
They  broke,  they  yielded,  fell,  or  fled. 
Bertram's  stern  voice  they  heed  no  more, 
Though  heard  above  the  battle's  roar ; 
While,  trampling  down  the  dying  man, 
He  strove,  with  volleyed  threat  and  ban, 
'  In  scorn  of  odds,  in  fate's  despite, 
To  rally  up  the  desperate  fight. 


SCOTT,  Rokeby. 


BOAT  SONG. 

PUSH  off  the  boat, 

Quit,  quit  the  shore, 
The  stars  will  guide  us  back ; 

O  gathering  clouds, 

0  wide,  wide  sea, 
0  waves  that  keep  no  track ! 


DEATH  OF  OSWALD   WYCLIFFE.  449 

On  through  the  pines, 

The  pillared  woods, 
Where  silence  breathes  sweet  breath : 

O  labyrinth, 

O  sunless  gloom, 
The  other  side  of  death ! 

GEORGE  ELIOT,  The  Spanish  Gypsy. 


DEATH  OF   OSWALD   WYCLIFFE. 


THE  outmost  crowd  have  heard  a  sound, 
Like  horse's  hoof  on  hardened  ground ; 
Nearer  it  came,  and  yet  more  near ; 
The  very  death's-men  paused  to  hear. 
'T  is  in  the  churchyard  now,  —  the  tread 
Hath  waked'  the  dwelling  of  the  dead ! 
Fresh  sod,  and  old  sepulchral  stone, 
Return  the  tramp  in  varied  tone. 
All  eyes  upon  the  gateway  hung, 
When  through  the  Gothic  arch  there  sprung 
A  horseman  armed,  at  headlong  speed ; 
Sable  his  cloak,  his  plume,  his  steed. 
Fire  from  the  flinty  floor  was  spurned, 
The  vault's  unwonted  clang  returned ! 
One  instant's  glance  around  he  threw, 
From  saddle  bow  his  pistol  drew. 
Grimly  determined  was  his  look ! 
His  charger  with  the  spurs  he  strook. 
All  scattered  backward  as  he  came, 
For  all  knew  Bertram  EisinghanL 

29 


450  WHAT  AILS   THEE,   DERVISE? 

Three  bounds  that  noble  courser  gave ; 
The  first  has  reached  the  central  nave, 
The  second  cleared  the  chancel  wide, 
The  third  —  he  was  at  Wycliffe's  side. 
Full  levelled  at  the  Baron's  head, 
Rung  the  report,  the  bullet  sped, 
And  to  his  long  account,  and  last, 
Without  a  groan  dark  Oswald  past ! 
All  was  so  quick  that  it  might  seein 
A  flash  of  lightning,  or  a  dream. 


SCOTT,  Rokeby, 


WHAT   AILS   THEE,   DEEVISE  ? 

"  WHAT  ails  thee,  Dervise  ?  eat,  —  dost  thou  suppose, 
This  feast  a  Christian's  ?  or  my  friends  thy  foes  ? 
Why  dost  thou  shun  the  salt  ?  that  sacred  pledge, 
Which,  once  partaken,  blunts  the  sabre's  edge, 
Makes  even  contending  tribes  in  peace  unite, 
And  hated  hosts  seem  brethren  to  the  sight ! " 

"  Salt  seasons  dainties,  and  my  food  is  still 

The  humblest  root,  my  drink  the  simplest  rill ; 

And  my  stern  vow  and  order's  laws  oppose 

To  break  or  mingle  bread  with  friends  or  foes  : 

It  may  seem  strange,  —  if  there  be  aught  to  dread, 

That  peril  rests  upon  my  single  head  ; 

But  for  thy  sway  —  nay,  more,  thy  Sultan's  throne, — 

I  taste  nor  bread  nor  banquet  —  save  alone ; 

Infringed  our  order's  rule,  the  Prophet's  rage 

To  Mecca's  dome  might  bar  my  pilgrimage." 


WHAT  AILS   THEE,   DERVISE  f  451 

"  Well,  as  thou  wilt,  —  ascetic  as  thou  art,  — 

One  question  answer ;  then  in  peace  depart. 

How  many  ?  —  Ha  !  it  cannot  sure  be  day  ? 

What  star,  what  sun  is  bursting  on  the  bay  ? 

It  shines  a  lake  of  fire  !  —  away  —  away  ! 

Ho  !  treachery !  my  guards  !  my  scimitar  ! 

The  galleys  feed  the  flames  —  arid  I  afar  ! 

Accursed  Deryise  !  —  these  thy  tidings  —  thou 

Some  villain  spy  —  seize  —  cleave  him  —  slay  him  now  ! " 

Up  rose  the  Dervise  with  that  burst  of  light, 
Nor  less  his  change  of  form  appalled  the  sight ; 
Up  rose  that  Dervise,  —  not  in  saintly  garb, 
But  like  a  warrior  bounding  on  his  barb, 
Dashed  his  high  cap,  and  tore  his  robe  away,  — 
Shone  his  mailed  breast,  and  flashed  his  sabre's  ray ! 
His  close  but  glittering  casque,  and  sable  plume, 
More  glittering  eye,  and  black  brow's  sabler  gloom, 
Glared  on  the  Moslem's  eyes  some  Afrit  sprite, 
Whose  demon  death-blow  left  no  hope  for  fight. 
The  wild  confusion,  and  the  swarthy  glow 
Of  flames  on  high  and  torches  from  below ; 
The  shriek  of  terror,  and  the  mingling  yell  — 
For  swords  began  to  clash,  and  shouts  to  swell  — 
Flung  o'er  that  spot  of  earth  the  air  of  hell  1 
Distracted,  to  and  fro,  the  flying  slaves 
Behold  but  bloody  shore  and  fiery  waves ; 
Nought  heeded  they  the  Pacha's  angry  cry, 
They  seize  that  Dervise  !  —  seize  on  Zatanai ! 
He  saw  their  terror,  —  checked  the  first  despair 
That  urged  him  but  to  stand  and  perish  there, 
Since  far  too  early  and  too  well  obeyed, 
The  flame  was  kindled  ere  the  signal  made ; 
He  saw  their  terror,  —  from  his  baldric  drew 


452  TIME. 

His  bugle,  —  brief  the  blast,  —  but  shrilly  blew  : 

'T  is  answered  —  "  Well  ye  speed,  my  gallant  crew! 

Why  did  I  doubt  their  quickness  of  career, 

And  deem  design  had  left  me  single  here  ? " 

Sweeps  his  long  arm,  —  that  sabre's  whirling  sway 

Sheds  fast  atonement  for  his  first  delay  ; 

Completes  his  fury  what  their  fear  begun, 

And  makes  the  many  basely  quail  to  one. 

The  cloven  turbans  o'er  the  chamber  spread, 

And  scarce  an  arm  dare  rise  to  guard  its  head ; 

Even  Seyd,  convulsed,  o'erwhelmed,  with  rage,  surprise, 

Retreats  before  him,  though  he  still  defies. 

No  craven  he,  and  yet  he  dreads  the  blow, 

So  much  confusion  magnifies  his  foe  1 

BYRON,  The  Corsair. 


TIME. 

"  WHY  sitt'st  thou  by  that  ruined  hall, 
Thou  aged  carle  so  stern  and  gray  ?  — • 

Dost  thou  its  former  pride  recall, 
Or  ponder  how  it  passed  away  ? " 

"  Know'st  thou  not  me,"  the  deep  voice  cried, 

"  So  long  enjoyed,  so  oft  misused,  — 
Alternate,  in  thy  fickle  pride, 
Desired,  neglected,  and  abused  ? 

"  Before  my  breath,  like  blazing  flax, 
Man  and  his  marvels  pass  away  ; 

And  changing  empires  wane  and  wax, 
Are  founded,  flourish,  and  decay. 


LET   US  LOVE.  453 

"  Eedeem  mine  hours,  — -  the  space  is  brief, 
While  in  my  glass  the  sand-grains  shiver, 

And  measureless  thy  joy  and  grief, 

When  TIME  and  thou  shalt  part  forever." 

SCOTT,  The  Antiquary. 


LET   US   LOVE. 

O  WEDDING-GUEST,  this  soul  hath  been 

Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea ; 
So  lonely  't  was,  that  God  himself 

Scarce  seemed  there  to  be. 

Oh,  sweeter  than  the  marriage  feast, 

'T  is  sweeter  far  to  me, 
To  walk  together  to  the  kirk 

With  a  goodly  company,  — 

To  walk  together  to  the  kirk, 

And  all  together  pray ; 
While  each  to  his  great  Father  bends,  — 
Old  men,  and  babes,  and  loving  friends, 

And  youths  and  maidens  gay  ! 

Farewell,  farewell !  but  this  I  tell 

To  thee,  thou  wedding-guest,  — 
He  prayeth  well  who  loveth  well 

Both  man  and  bird  and  beast. 

He  prayeth  best  who  loveth  best 

All  things,  both  great  and  small ; 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 

He  made  and  loveth  all. 

COLERIDGE,  Rhyme  of  the  Ancient  Mariner. 


454  EXTRACT  FROM   "HAMLET." 


EXTEACT   FKOM   "HAMLET." 

Hamlet.    It  will  not  speak ;  then  I  will  follow  it. 

Hwatio.    Do  not,  my  lord. 

Hamlet.  Why,  what  should  be  the  fear  ? 

I  do  not  set  my  life  at  a  pin's  fee ; 
And  for  my  soul,  what  can  it  do  to  that, 
Being  a  thing  immortal  as  itself  ? 
It  waves  me  forth  again :  I  '11  follow  it. 

Horatio.   What  if  it  tempt  you  toward  the  flood,  my  lord, 
Or  to  the  dreadful  summit  of  the  cliff, 
That  beetles  o'er  his  base  into  the  sea ! 
And  there  assume  some  other  horrible  form, 
Which  might  deprive  your  sovereignty  of  reason, 
And  draw  you  into  madness  ?  think  of  it : 
The  very  place  puts  toys  of  desperation, 
Without  more  motive,  into  every  brain, 
That  looks  so  many  fathoms  to  the  sea, 
And  hears  it  roar  beneath. 

Hamlet.  It  waves  me  still. 

Go  on :  I  '11  follow  thee. 

Marcellus.   You  shall  not  go,  my  lord. 

Hamlet.  Hold  off  your  hands. 

Horatio.   Be  ruled ;  you  shall1  not  go.  _ 

Hamlet.  My  fate  cries  out, 

And  makes  each  petty  artery  in  this  body 
As  hardy  as  the  Nemean  lion's  nerve. 
Still  am  I  called.     Unhand  me,  gentlemen. 
By  heaven,  I  '11  make  a  ghost  of  him  that  lets  me ! 

I  say,  away  !     Go  on  :  1 11  follow  thee. 

SHAKSPEARE. 

This  will  always  be  connected  in  some  minds  with  Mrs.  KEMBLK'S  reading  of  it. 


FAME  WELL!  IF  EVER  FONDEST  PRAYER.          455 


LAMENT   FOR  JAMES,  EAEL  OF   GLENCAIRK 

THE  bridegroom  may  forget  the  bride 

Was  made  his  wedded  wife  yestreen ; 
The  monarch  may  forget  the  crown 

That  on  his  head  an  hour  has  been ; 
Tha  mother  may  forget  the  child 

That  smiles  sae  sweetly  on  her  knee : 
But  I  '11  remember  thee,  Glencairu, 

And  a'  that  thou  hast  done  for  me. 

BURNS. 


FAREWELL!  IF  EVER  FONDEST  PRAYER 

FAREWELL  !  if  ever  fondest  prayer 

For  other's  weal  availed  on  high, 
Mine  will  not  all  be  lost  in  air, 

But  waft  thy  name  beyond  the  sky. 
'T  were  vain  to  speak,  to  weep,  to  sigh : 

Oh !  more  than  tears  of  blood  can  tell, 
When  wrung  from  guilt's  expiring  eye, 

Are  in  that  word  —  Farewell !  Farewell ! 

These  lips  are  mute,  these  eyes  are  dry ; 

But  in  my  breast  and  in  my  brain 
Awake  the  pangs  that  pass  not  by, 

The  thought  that  ne'er  shall  sleep  again. 
My  soul  nor  deigns  nor  dares  complain, 

Though  grief  and  passion  there  rebel: 
I  only  know  we  loved  in  vain,  — 

I  only  feel  —  Farewell !  Farewell ! 

BYRON. 


456  NORNA'S  ANSWER   TO   THE  DWARF. 


SONG. 

WITHDRAW  not  yet  those  lips  and  fingers, 
Whose  touch  to  mine  is  rapture's  spell; 

Life's  joy  for  us  a  moment  lingers, 
And  death  seems  in  the  word  —  Farewell. 

The  hour  that  bids  us  part  and  go, 

It  sounds  not  yet,  —  oh  no,  no,  no  ! 

Time,  whilst  I  gaze  upon  thy  sweetness, 

Flies  like  a  courser  nigh  the  goal : 
To-morrow  where  shall  be  his  fleetness, 

When  thou  art  parted  from  my  soul  ? 
Our  hearts  shall  beat,  our  tears  shall  flow, 
But  not  together,  —  no,  no,  no ! 

CAMPBELL. 


NORNA'S  ANSWER  TO   THE  DWARF. 

DARK  are  thy  woods,  and  severe, 

Thou  dweller  in  the  stone ! 
But  trembling  and  fear 

To  her  are  unknown, 
Who  hath  sought  thee  here 

In  thy  dwelling  lone. 
Come  what  comes  soever, 

The  worst  I  can  endure ; 
Life  is  but  a  short  fever, 

And  death  is  the  cure. 

SCOTT,  The  Pirate. 


COME  NOT,    WHEN  I  AM  DEAD.  457 


THE   SABBATH   OF  THE  SOUL. 

SLEEP,  sleep  to-day,  tormenting  cares, 

Of  earth  and  folly  born ; 
Ye  shall  not  dim  the  light  that  streams 

From  this  celestial  morn. 

To-morrow  will  be  time  enough 

To  feel  your  harsh  control ; 
Ye  shall  not  violate,  this  day, 

The  Sabbath  of  my  soul. 

Sleep,  sleep  forever,  guilty  thoughts  ; 

Let  fires  t)f  vengeance  die ; 
And,  purged  from  sin,  may  I  behold 

A  God  of  purity  ! 

ANNA  L.  BARBAULD. 


COME  NOT,  WHEN   I  AM   DEAD. 

COME  not,  when  I  am  dead, 

To  drop  thy  foolish  tears  upon  my  grave, 
To  trample  round  my  fallen  head, 

And  vex  the  unhappy  dust  thou  wouldst  not  save. 
There  let  the  wind  sweep  and  the  plover  cry ; 
But  thou,  go  by. 

Child,  if  it  were  thine  error  or  thy  crime, 

I  care  no  longer,  being  all  unblest ; 
Wed  whom  thou  wilt,  but  I  am  sick  of  Time, 

And  I  desire  to  rest. 
Pass  on,  weak  heart,  and  leave  me  where  I  lie : 

Go  by,  go  by. 

TENNYSON. 
Sung  by  A.  C.  B. 


458  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  SIR  PETER  PARKER. 

ELEGIAC   STANZAS 

ON    THE    DEATH   OF    SIR    PETER    PARKER,    BART. 

THERE  is  a  tear  for  all  that  die, 

A  mourner  o'er  the  humblest  grave  ; 

But  nations  swell  the  funeral  cry, 
And  Triumph  weeps  above  the  brave. 

For  them  is  Sorrow's  purest  sigh 
O'er  Ocean's  heaving  bosom  sent : 

In  vain  their  bones  unburied  lie, 
All  earth  becomes  their  monument ! 

A  tomb  is  theirs  on  every  page, 

An  epitaph  on  every  tongue : 
The  present  hours,  the  future  age, 

For  them  bewail,  to  them  belong. 

* 

For  them  the  voice  of  festal  mirth 

Grows  hushed,  their  name  the  only  sound  ; 

While  deep  remembrance  pours  to  worth 
The  goblet's  tributary  round. 

,  A  theme  to  crowds  that  knew  them  not, 

Lamented  by  admiring  foes, 
Who  would  not  share  their  glorious  lot  ? 
Who  would  not  die  the  death  they  chose  ? 

And,  gallant  Parker !  thus  enshrined 
Thy  life,  thy  fall,  thy  fame,  shall  be ; 

And  early  valor,  glowing,  find 
A  model  in  thy  memory. 

BYRON. 


WHAT'S  HALLOWED   GROUND?  459 


TWIST   YE,   TWINE  YE. 

TWIST  ye,  twine  ye !  even  so 
Mingle  shades  of  joy  and  woe», 
Hope  and  fear,  and  peace  and  strife, 
In  the  thread  of  human  life. 

While  the  mystic  twist  is  spinning, 
And  the  infant's  life  beginning, 
Dimly  seen  through  twilight  bending, 
Lo  !  what  varied  shapes  attending  ! 

Passions  wild,  and  follies  vain, 
Pleasures  soon  exchanged  for  pain, 
Doubt  and  jealousy  and  fear, 
In  the  magic  dance  appear. 

Now  they  wax,  and  now  they  dwindle, 
Whirling  with  the  whirling  spindle. 
Twist  ye,  twine  ye  !  even  so 
Mingle  human  bliss  and  woe. 

SCOTT,  Guy  Mannering. 


WHAT'S   HALLOWED   GROUND? 

WHAT  's  hallowed  ground  ?     Has  earth  a  clod 
Its  Maker  meant  not  should  be  trod 
By  man,  the  image  of  his  God, 

Erect  and  free, 
Unscourged  by  Superstition's  rod 

To  bow  the  knee  ? 


460  WHAT'S  HALLOWED   GROUND? 

That 's  hallowed  ground,  where,  mourned  and  missed, 

The  lips  repose  our  love  has  kissed ;  — 

But  where  's  their  memory's  mansion  ?     Is  't 

Yon  churchyard's  bowers  ? 
No !  in  ourselves  their  souls  exist, 

A  part  of  ours. 

What  hallows  ground  where  heroes  sleep  ? 
'T  is  not  the  sculptured  piles  you  heap  ! 
In  dews  that  heavens  far  distant  weep 

Their  turf  may  bloom ; 
Or  genii  twine  beneath  the  deep 

Their  coral  tomb. 

But  strew  his  ashes  to  the  wind, 

Whose  sword  or  voice  has  served  mankind, 

And  is  he  dead  whose  glorious  mind 

Lifts  thine  on  high  ? 
To  live  in  hearts  we  leave  behind, 

Is  not  to  die. 

Is  't  death  to  fall  for  Freedom's  right? 

He 's  dead  alone  that  lacks  her  light ! 
And  murder  sullies  in  Heaven's  sight 

The  sword  he  draws : 
What  can  alone  ennoble  fight  ? 

A  noble  cause ! 

What 's  hallowed  ground  ?     'T  is  what  gives  birth 
To  sacred  thoughts  in  souls  of  worth !  — 
Peace !  Independence !  Truth !  go  forth 

Earth's  compass  round ; 
And  your  high-priesthood  shall  make  earth 

All  hallowed  ground ! 

CAMPBELL. 


THE  HEAVENLY  LAND.  461 


THE   HEAVENLY   LAND. 

THEKE  is  a  land  of  pure  delight, 

Where  saints  immortal  reign  ; 
Infinite  day  excludes  the  night, 

And  pleasures  banish  pain. 

There  everlasting  spring  abides, 

And  never- withering  flowers ; 
Death,  like  a  narrow  sea,  divides 

This  heavenly  land  from  ours. 

Sweet  fields  beyond  the  swelling  flood 

Stand  dressed  in  living  green  ; 
So  to  the  Jews  old  Canaan  stood, 

While  Jordan  rolled  between. 

But  timorous  mortals  start  and  shrink 

To  cross  this  narrow  sea, 
And  linger  shivering  on  the  brink, 

And  fear  to  launch  away. 

Oh,  pould  we  make  our  doubts  remove, 

These  gloomy  doubts  that  rise, 
And  see  the  Canaan  that'we  love 

With  unbeclouded  eyes,  — 

Could  we  but  climb  where  Moses  stood, 

And  view  the  landscape  o'er, 
Not  Jordan's  stream,  nor  death's  cold  flood, 

Should  fright  us  from  the  shore. 

WATTS. 


462  THE    UNIVERSAL  PRAYER. 


THE   UNIVERSAL  PRAYER 

FATHEK  of  all !  in  every  age, 

In  every  clime  adored, 
By  saint,  by  savage,  and  by  sage, 

Jehovah,  Jove,  or  Lord  ! 

Thou -great  First  Cause,  least  understood, 

Who  all  my  sense  confined 
To  know  but  this,  that  thou  art  good, 

And  that  myself  am  blind  ; 

Yet  gave  me,  in  this  dark  estate, 

To  see  the  good  from  ill ; 
And,  binding  nature  fast  in  fate, 

Left  free  the  human  will. 

What  conscience  dictates  to  be  done, 

Or  warns  me  not  to  do, 
This  teach  me  more  than  hell  to  shun, 

That  more  than  heaven  pursue. 

What  blessings  thy  free  bounty  gives 

Let  me  not  cast  away ; 
For  God  is  paid  when  man  receives : 

To  enjoy  is  to  obey. 

Yet  not  to  earth's  contracted  span 

Thy  goodness  let  me  bound, 
Or  think  thee  Lord  alone  of  man, 

When  thousand  worlds  are  round. 


THE   UNIVERSAL  PRAYER.  463 

Let  not  this  weak,  unknowing  hand 

Presume  thy  bolts  to  throw, 
And  deal  damnation  round  the  land 

On  each  I  judge  thy  foe. 

If  I  am  right,  thy  grace  impart 

Still  in  the  right  to  stay  ; 
If  I  am  wrong,  oh,  teach  my  heart 

To  find  that  better  way  ! 

Save  me  alike  from  foolish  pride, 

Or  impious  discontent, 
At  aught  thy  wisdom  has  denied, 

Or  aught  thy  goodness  lent. 

Teach  me  to  feel  another's  woe, 

To  hide  the  fault  I  see ; 
That  mercy  I  to  others  show, 

That  mercy  show  to  me. 

Mean  though  I  am,  not  wholly  so, 

Since  quickened  by  thy  breath ; 
Oh,  lead  me  wheresoe'er  I  go, 

Through  this  day's  life  or  death. 

This  day  be  bread  and  peace  my  lot ; 

All  else  beneath  the  sun 
Thou  know'st  if  best  bestowed  or  not, 

And  let  thy  will  be  done ! 

To  thee,  whose  temple  is  all  space,  — 

Whose  altar,  earth,  sea,  skies,  — 
One  chorus  let  all  beings  raise ! 

All  Nature's  incense  rise ! 

POPE. 


464  MARINER'S  HYMN. 


MARINEK'S  HYMN. 

LAUNCH  thy  bark,  mariner ! 

Christian,  God  speed  thee ! 
Let  loose  the  rudder-bands,  — 

Good  angels  lead  thee  ! 
Set  thy  sails  warily, 

Tempests  will  come ; 
Steer  thy  course  steadily : 

Christian,  steer  home ! 

Look  to  the  weather-bow, 

Breakers  are  round  thee ; 
Let  fall  the  plummet  now, 

Shallows  may  ground  thee. 
Reef  in  the  foresail,  there ! 

Hold  the  helm  fast ! 
So,  —  let  the  vessel  wear  — 

There  swept  the  blast. 

"  What  of  the  night,  watchman  ? 

What  of  the  night  ? " 
"  Cloudy  —  all  quiet  — ' 

No  land  yet — all's  right." 
Be  wakeful,  be  vigilant,  — 

Danger  may  be 
At  an  hour  when  all  seemeth 

Securest  to  thee. 

How !  gains  the  leak  so  fast  ? 

Clean  out  the  hold,  — 
Hoist  up  thy  merchandise, 

Heave  out  thy  gold ; 


SONG.  465 

There  —  let  the  ingots  go  — 

Now  the  ship  rights ; 
Hurrah !  the  harbor 's  near  — 

Lo !  the  red  lights ! 

Slacken  not  sail  yet 

At  inlet  or  island  ; 
Straight  for  the  beacon  steer, 

Straight  for  the  high  land ; 
Crowd  all  thy  canvas  on, 

Cut  through  the  foam : 
Christian !  cast  anchor  now,  — 

Heaven  is  thy  home  ! 

MBS.  SOUTHEY. 


SONG. 

DRINK  ye  to  her  that  each  loves  best, 

And  if  ye  nurse  a  flame 
That 's  told  but  to  her  mutual  breast, 

We  will  not  ask  her  name. 

Enough,  while  memory  tranced  and  glad 

Paints  silently  the  fair, 
That  each  should  dream  of  joys  he 's  had, 

Or  yet  may  hope  to  share. 

Yet  far,  far  hence  be  jest  or  boast 

From  hallowed  thoughts  so  dear ; 
But  drink  to  her  that  each  loves  most, 

As  she  would  love  to  hear. 

CAMPBELL. 

30 


466  SCENE  FROM  "KING  JOHN." 


SCENE   FROM   "MACBETH." 

First  Witch.     When  shall  we  three  meet  again,  — 
In  thunder,  lightning,  or  in  rain  ? 

Second  Witch.  When  the  hurlyburjy  's  done, 

When  the  battle 's  lost  and  won. 

Third  Witch.   That  will  be  ere  the  set  of  sun. 

First  Witch.    Where  the  place  ? 

Second  Witch.  Upon  the  heath. 

Third  Witch.  There  to  meet  with  Macbeth. 

First  Witch.     I  come,  Graymalkin  ! 

Second  Witch.  Paddock  calls.' 

Third  Witch.   Anon. 

All.  Fair  is  foul,  and  foul  is  fair : 

Hover  through  the  fog  and  filthy  air. 

SHAKSPEARE. 


SCENE  FEOM   "KING   JOHN." 

Constance.   War !  war !  no  peace !  peace  is  to  me  a  war. 
0  Lymoges !  O  Austria !  thou  dost  shame 
That  bloody  spoil :  thou  slave,  thou  wretch,  thou  coward  ! 
Thou  little  valiant,  great  in  villany ! 
Thou  ever  strong  upon  the  stronger  side ! 
Thou  fortune's  champion,  that  dost  never  fight 
But  when  her  humorous  ladyship  is  by 
To  teach  thee  safety !  thou  art  perjured  too, 
And  sooth'st  up  greatness.     What  a  fool  art  thou, 
A  ramping  fool,  to  brag  and  stamp  and  swear 
Upon  my  party !     Thou  cold-blooded  slave, 
Hast  thou  not  spoke  like  thunder  on  my  side  ? 


A   SAIL!    A    SAIL!  467 

Been  sworn  my  soldier,  bidding  me  depend 
Upon  thy  stars,  thy  fortune,  and  thy  strength, 
And  dost  thou  now  fall  over  to  my  foes  ? 
Thou  wear  a  lion's  hide  !  doff  it  for  shame, 
And  hang  a  calf's  skin  on  those  recreant  limbs. 

Austria.    Oh  that  a  man  should  speak  those  words  to  me ! 

Bastard.   And  hang  a  calf's  skin  on  those  recreant  limbs. 

Austria.   Thou  dar'st  not  say  so,  villain,  for  thy  life. 

Bastard.   And  hang  a  calf's  skin  on  those  recreant  limbs. 

King  John.   We  like  not  this  :  thou  dost  forget  thyself. 

SHAKSPEARE. 


A   SAIL!   A   SAIL! 

"  A  SAIL  !  a  sail ! "  •  —  a  promised  prize  to  Hope  ! 

Her  nation,  —  flag,  —  how  speaks  the  telescope  ? 

No  prize,  alas  !  but  yet  a  welcome  sail : 

The  blood-red  signal  glitters  in  the  gale. 

Yes,  —  she  is  ours,  —  a  home-returning  bark  — 

Blow  fair,  thou  breeze !  —  she  anchors  ere  the  dark. 

Already  doubled  is  the  Cape,  —  our  bay 

Receives  that  prow  which  proudly  spurns  the  spray. 

How  gloriously  her  gallant'  course  she  goes  ! 

Her  white  wings  flying,  —  never  from  her  foes,  — 

She  walks  the  waters  like  a  thing  of  life, 

And  seems  to  dare  the  elements  to  strife. 

Who  would  not  brave  the  battle-fire,  the  wreck, 

To  move  the  monarch  of  her  peopled  deck  ? 

BYRON,  The  Corsair. 


468  BRING  FORTH  THE  HORSE. 


BRING  FORTH   THE   HORSE. 

"BRING  forth  the  horse!"  —  the  horse  was  brought: 

In  truth,  he  was  a  noble  steed, 

A  Tartar  of  the  Ukraine  breed, 

Who  looked  as  though  the  speed  of  thought 

Were  in  his  limbs ;  but  he  was  wild, 

Wild  as  the  wild  deer,  and  untaught, 

With  spur  and  bridle  undefiled  — 

'T  was  but  a  day  he  had  been  caught ; 

And  snorting,  with  erected  mane, 

And  struggling  fiercely,  but  in  vain, 

In  the  full  foam  of  wrath  and  dread 

To  me  the  desert-born  was  led  : 

They  bound  me  on,  that  menial  throng, 

Upon  his  back  with  many  a  thong ; 

Then  loosed  him  with  a  sudden  lash  — 

Away  !  —  away  !   and  on  we  dash  ! 

Torrents  less  rapid  and  less  rash. 

"  Away  !  —  away  !  —  My  breath  was  gone, 

I  saw  not  where  he  hurried  on : 

'T  was  scarcely  yet  the  break  of  day, 

And  on  he  foamed,  —  away  !  —  away ! 

The  last  of  human  sounds  which  rose, 

As  I  was  darted  from  my  foes, 

Was  the  wild  shout  of  savage  laughter, 

Which  on  the  wind  came  roaring  after 

A  moment  from  that  rabble  rout. 

BYRON,  Mazeppa. 


THE  DEATH  OF  THE  FLOWERS.  469 


THE  DEATH   OF   THE  FLOWERS: 

THE  melancholy  days  are  come,  the  saddest  of  the  year, 

Of  wailing  winds,  and  naked  woods,  and  meadows  brown  and 

sere. 

Heaped  in  the  hollows  of  the  grove,  the  autumn  leaves  lie  dead ; 
They  rustle  to  the  eddying  gust,  and  to  the  rabbit's  tread ; 
The  robin  and  the  wren  are  flown,  and  from  the  shrubs  the  jay, 
And  from  the  wood-top  calls  the  crow  through  all  the  gloomy 

day. 

Where  are  the  flowers,  the  fair  young  flowers,  that  lately  sprang 

and  stood 

In  brighter  light  and  softer  airs,  a  beauteous  sisterhood  ? 
Alas  !  they  all  are  in  their  graves ;  the  gentle  race  of  flowers 
Are  lying  in  their  lowly  beds,  with  the  fair  and  good  of  ours. 
The  rain  is  falling  where  they  lie  ;  but  the  cold  November  rain 
Calls  not  from  out  the  gloomy  earth  the  lovely  ones  again. 

The  wind-flower  and  the  violet,  they  perished  long  ago, 

And  the  brier-rose  and  the  orchis  died  amid  the  summer  glow  ; 

But  on  the  hill  the  golden-rod,  and  the  aster  in  the  wood, 

And  the  yellow  sunflower  by  the  brook  in  autumn  beauty  stood, 

Till  fell  the  frost  from  the  clear  cold  heaven,  as  falls  the  plague 

on  men, 
And  the  brightness  of  their  smile  was  gone,  from  upland,  glade, 

and  glen. 

And  now,  when  comes  the  calm  mild  day,  as  still  such  days  will 

come, 

To  call  the  squirrel  and  the  bee  from  out  their  winter  home  ; 
When  the  sound  of  dropping  nuts  is  heard,  though  all  the  trees 

are  still, 


470  SEA    SONG. 

And  twinkle  in  the  smoky  light  the  waters  of  the  rill, 

The  south-wind  searches  for  the  flowers  whose  fragrance  late  he 

bore, 
And  sighs  to  find  them  in  the  wood  and  by  the  stream  no  more. 

And  then  I  think  of  one  who  in  her  youthful  beauty  died, 
The  fair  meek  blossom  that  grew  up  and  faded  by  my  side. 
In  the  cold  moist  earth  we  laid  her,  when  the  forests  cast  the 

leaf, 

And  we  wept  that  one  so  lovely  should  have  a  life  so  brief : 
Yet  not  unmeet  it  was  that  one,  like  that  young  friend  of  ours, 
So  gentle  and  so  beautiful,  should  perish  with  the  flowers. 

BRYANT. 


SEA  SONG. 

A  WET  sheet  and  a  flowing  sea, 

A  wind  that  follows  fast, 
And  fills  the  white  and  rustling  sail, 

And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  — 
And  bends  the  gallant  mast,  my  boys, 

While,  like  the  eagle  free, 
Away  the  good  ship  flies,  and  leaves 

Old  England  on  the  lee. 

Oh  for  a  soft  and  gentle  wind ! 

I  heard  a  fair  one  cry ; 
But  give  to  me  the  snoring  breeze, 

And  white  waves  heaving  high,  — 
And  white  waves  heaving  high,  my  lads, 

The  good  ship  tight  and  free,  — 
The  world  of  waters  is  our  home, 

And  merry  men  are  we. 


THE   CORAL   GROVE.  471 

There  's  tempest  in  yon  horned  moon, 

And  lightning  in  yon  cloud ; 
But  hark  the  music,  mariners  ! 

The  wind  is  piping  loud,  — 
The  wind  is  piping  loud,  my  boys, 

The  lightning  flashes  free, 
While  the  hollow  oak  our  palace  is, 

Our  heritage  the  sea. 

ALLAN  CUNNINGHAM. 


THE   CORAL  GEOVE. 

DEEP  in  the  wave  is  a  coral  grove, 

Where  the  purple  mullet  and  gold-fish  rove ; 

Where  the  sea  flower  spreads  its  leaves  of  blue, 

That  never  are  wet  with  falling  dew, 

But  in  bright  and  changeful  beauty  shine 

Far  down  in  the  green  and  glassy  brine. 

The  floor  is  of  sand,  like  the  mountain  drift, 

And  the  pearl-shells  spangle  the  flinty  snow  ; 

From  coral  rocks  the  sea-plants  lift 

Their  boughs,  where  the  tides  and  billows  flow ; 

The  water  is  calm  and  still  below, 

For  the  winds  and  the  waves  are  absent  there, 

And  the  sands  are  bright  as  the  stars  that  glow 

In  the  motionless  fields  of  upper  air  : 

There,  with  its  waving  blade  of  green, 

The  sea-flag  streams  through  the  silent  water, 

And  the  crimson  leaf  of  the  dulse  is  seen 

To  blush  like  a  banner  bathed  in  slaughter : 

There,  with  a  light  and  easy  motion, 

The  fan-coral  sweeps  through  the  clear,  deep  sea ; 

And  the  yellow  and  scarlet  tufts  of  ocean 


472  O'ER    THE   GLAD    WATERS. 

Are  bending  like  corn  on  the  upland  lea ; 

And  life,  in  rare  and  beautiful  forms, 

Is  sporting  amid  those  bowers  of  stone, 

And  is  safe,  when  the  wrathful  spirit  of  storms 

Has  made  the  top  of  the  waves  his  own  : 

And  when  the  ship  from  his  fury  flies, 

When  the  myriad  voices  of  ocean  roar, 

When  the  wind-god  frowns  in  the  murky  skies, 

And  demons  are  waiting  the  wreck  on  the  shore, 

Then  far  below  in  the  peaceful  sea, 

The  purple  mullet  and  gold-fish  rove, 

Where  the  waters  murmur  tranquilly 

Through  the  bending  twigs  of  the  coral  grove. 

PERCIVAL. 


O'EE  THE   GLAD   WATERS. 

O'EK  the  glad  waters  of  the  dark  blue  sea, 
Our  thoughts  as  boundless,  and  our  souls  as  free, 
Far  as  the  breeze  can  bear,  the  billows  foam, 
Survey  our  empire  and  behold  our  home  ! 
These  are  our  realms,  no  limits  to  their  sway,  — 
Our  flag  the  sceptre  all  who  meet  obey. 
Ours  the  wild  life  in  tumult  still  to  range 
From  toil  to  rest,  and  joy  in  every  change. 
Oh,  who  can  tell  ?  not  thou,  luxurious  slave  ! 
Whose  soul  would  sicken  o'er  the  heaving  wave ; 
Not  thou,  vain  lord  of  wantonness  and  ease ! 
Whom  slumber  soothes  not,  pleasure  cannot  please. 
Oh,  who  can  tell,  save  he  whose  heart  hath  tried, 
And  danced  in  triumph  o'er  the  waters  wide, 
The  exulting  sense,  the  pulse's  maddening  play, 
That  thrills  the  wanderer  of  that  trackless  way  ? 


TACKING  SHIP   OFF  SHORE.  473 

That  for  itself  can  woo  the  approaching  fight, 
And  turn  what  some  deem  danger  to  delight ; 
That  seeks  what  cravens  shun  with  more  than  zeal, 
And  where  the  feebler  faint,  can  only  feel,  — 
Feel,  to  the  rising  bosom's  inmost  core, 
Its  hope  awaken  and  its  spirit  soar  ? 

BYRON,  The  Corsair. 
T.  T.  F. 


TACKING  SHIP   OFF   SHOEE. 

THE  weather-leech  of  the  topsail  shivers, 

The  bowlines  strain,  and  the  lee-shrouds  slacken ; 

The  braces  are  taut,  the  lithe  boom  quivers, 

And  the  waves  with  the  coming  squall-cloud  blacken. 

Open  one  point  on  the  weather-bow, 

Is  the  lighthouse  tall  on  Fire  Island  Head  ? 

There 's  a  shadow  of  doubt  on  the  captain's  brow, 
And  the  pilot  watches  the  heaving  lead. 

I  stand  at  the  wheel,  and  with  eager  eye, 

To  sea  and  to  sky  and  to  shore  I  gaze, 
Till  the  muttered  order  of  "  Full  and  ly  !  " 

Is  suddenly  changed  for  "  full  for  stays  I " 

The  ship  bends  lower  before  the  breeze, 
As  her  broadside  fair  to  the  blast  she  lays ; 

And  she  swifter  springs  to  the  rising  seas, 
As  the  pilot  calls,  "  Stand  ~by  for  stays ! " 

It  is  silence  all,  as  each  in  his  place, 

With  the  gathered  coil  in  his  hardened  hands, 

By  tack  and  bowline,  by  sheet  and  brace, 
Waiting  the  watchword  impatient  stands. 


474  TACKING   SHIP   OFF  SHORE. 

And  the  light  on  Fire  Island  Head  draws  near, 

As,  trumpet-winged,  the  pilot's  shout 
From  his  post  on  the  bowsprit's  heel  I  hear, 

With  the  welcome  call  of  "Heady  !  About !" 

No  time  to  spare  !     It  is  touch  and  go  ; 

And  the  captain  growls,  "  Down  helm,  hard  down  !  " 
As  my  weight  on  the  whirling  spokes  I  throw, 

While  heaven  grows  black  with  the  storm-cloud's  frown. 

High  o'er  the  knight-heads  fl^ies  the  spray, 
As  we  meet  the  shock  of  the  plunging  sea  ; 

And  my  shoulder  stiff  to  the  wheel  I  lay, 
As  I  answer,  "  Ay,  ay,  sir  !  H-a-r-d-a  lee  I " 

With  the  swerving  leap  of  a  startled  steed 
The  ship  flies  fast  in  the  eye  of  the  wind, 

The  dangerous  shoals  on  the  lee  recede, 

And  the  headland  white  we  have  left  behind. 

The  topsails  flutter,  the  jibs  collapse, 

And  belly  and  tug  at  the  groaning  cleats ; 

The  spanker  slats,  and  the  mainsail  flaps ; 
And  thunders  the  order,  "  Tacks  and  slieets  !  " 

'Mid  the  rattle  of  blocks  and  the  tramp  of  the  crew, 

Hissfes  the  rain  of  the  rushing  squall : 
The  sails  are  aback  from  clew  to  clew, 

And  now  is  the  moment  for  "Mainsail,  haul !" 

And  the  heavy  yards,  like  a  baby's  toy, 

By  fifty  strong  arms  are  swiftly  swung; 
She  holds  her  way,  and  I  look  with  joy 

For  the  first  white  spray  o'er  the  bulwarks  flung. 


THE    CHILDREN'S  HOUR.  475 

"  Let  go  and  haul  !  "     'T  is  the  last  command, 
And  the  head-sails  fill  the  blast  once  more : 

Astern  and  to  leeward  lies  the  land, 

With  its  breakers  white  on  the  shingly  shore. 

What  matters  the  reef,  or  the  rain,  or  the  squall  ? 

I  steady  the  helm  for  the  open  sea ; 
The  first  mate  clamors,  "  Bday  there,  all  !  " 

And  the  captain's  breath  once  more  comes  free. 

And  so  off  shore  let  the  good  ship  fly ; 

Little  care  I  how  the  gusts  may  blow, 
In  my  fo'castle  bunk,  in  a  jacket  dry, 

Eight  bells  have  struck  and  my  watch  is  below. 

WALTER  MITCHEL. 

This  reminds  me  of  the  "Rambler"  in  a  gale  of  wind,  when  we  carried  away 
our  maiu  halyards  off  FIRE  ISLAND  with  just  room  to  tack  outside  the  breakers. 


THE   CHILDKEN'S   HOUR 

BETWEEN  the  dark  and  the  daylight, 
When  the  night  is  beginning  to  lower, 

Comes  a  pause  in  the  day's  occupations 
That  is  known  as  the  children's  hour. 

I  hear  in  the  chamber  above  me 

The  patter  of  little  feet, 
The  sound  of  a  door  that  is  opened, 

And  voices  soft  and  sweet. 

From  my  study  I  see  in  the  lamp-light, 
Descending  the  broad  hall-stair, 

Grave  Alice  and  laughing  Allegra, 
And  Edith  with  golden  hair. 


476  THE   CHILDREN'S  HOUR. 

A  whisper,  and  then  a  silence ; 

Yet  I  know  by  their  merry  eyes 
They  are  plotting  and  planning  together 

To  take  me  by  surprise. 

A  sudden  rush  from  the  stairway, 

A  sudden  raid  from  the  hall:  \ 
By  three  doors  left  unguarded 

They  enter  my  castle  wall. 

They  climb  "up  into  my  turret 

O'er  the  arms  and  back  of  my  chair; 

If  I  try  to  escape,  they  surround  me : 
They  seem  to  be  everywhere. 

They  almost  devour  me  with  kisses ; 

Their  arms  about  me  intwine, 
Till  I  think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen 

In  his  Mouse-Tower  on  the  Rhine. 

Do  you  think,  0  blue-eyed  banditti ! 

Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall, 
Such  an  old  mustache  as  I  am 

Is  not  a  match  for  you  all  ? 

I  have  you  fast  in  my  fortress, 

And  will  not  let  you  depart, 
But  put  you  down  into  the  dungeons 

In  the  Round  Tower  of  my  heart. 

And  there  will  I  keep  you  forever,  — 

Yes,  forever  and  a  day, 
Till  the  walls  shall  crumble  to  ruin, 

And  moulder  in  dust  away. 

LONGFELLOW. 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  A   LIGHTHOUSE.  477 


SHE   WALKS   IN   BEAUTY. 

SHE  walks  in  beauty,  like  the  night 
Of  cloudless  climes  and  starry  skies ; 

And  all  that 's  best  of  dark  and  bright 
Meet  in  her  aspect  and  her  eyes : 

Thus  mellowed  to  that  tender  light 
Which  heaven  to  gaudy  day  denies. 

One  shade  the  more,  one  ray  the  less, 
Had  half  impaired  the  nameless  grace 

Which  waves  in  every  raven  tress, 
Or  softly  lightens  o'er  her  face ; 

Where  thoughts  serenely  sweet  express 
How  pure,  how  dear,  their  dwelling-place. 

And  on  that  cheek  and  o'er  that  brow, 

So  soft,  so  calm,  yet  eloquent, 
The  smiles  that  win,  the  tints  that  glow, 

But  tell  of  days  in  goodness  spent, 
A  mind  at  peace  with  all  below, 

A  heart  whose  love  is  innocent. 

BYEON. 


INSCRIPTION   FOR  A   LIGHTHOUSE. 

FAK  in  the  bosom  of  the  deep, 

O'er  these  wild  shelves  my  watch  I  keep ; 

A  ruddy  gem  of  changeful  light 

Bound  on  the  dusky  brow  of  night : 

The  seaman  bids  my  lustre  hail, 

And  scorns  to  strike  his  timorous  sail. 

SCOTT. 


478  1  'LL  NEVER  LOVE    THEE  MORE. 


TO   LUCASTA. 

TELL  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind, 

That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind, . 

To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

True,  a  new  mistress  now  I  chase, 

The  first  foe  in  the  field ; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

As  you  too  shall  adore ; 
I  could  not  love  thee,  dear,  so  much, 

Loved  I  not  honor  more. 

RICHARD  LOVELACE. 


I'LL   NEVER  LOVE   THEE   MORE. 

MY  dear  and  only  love,  I  pray 

That  little  world  of  thee 
Be  governed  by  no  other  sway 

But  purest  monarchy; 
For  if  confusion  have  a  part, 

Which  virtuous  souls  abhor, 
And  hold  a  synod  in  thy  heart, 

I  '11  never  love  thee  more. 

As  Alexander  I  will  reign, 

And  I  will  reign  alone ; 
My  thoughts  did  evermore  disdain 

A  rival  on  my  throne. 


MY  PLAYMATE.  479 

He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much, 

Or  his  deserts  are  small, 
Who  dares  not  put  it  to  the.  touch, 

Tp  gain  or  lose  it  all. 

But  if  no  faithless  action  stain 

Thy  love  and  constant  word, 
I  '11  make  thee  famous  by  my  pen, 

And  glorious  by  my  sword. 
I  '11  serve  thee  in  such  noble  ways 

As  ne'er  was  known  before ; 
I  '11  deck  and  crown  thy  head  with  bays, 

And  love  thee  more  and  more. 

MARQUIS  OF  MONTROSE. 


MY  PLAYMATE. 

THE  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth  hill, 
Their  song  was  soft  and  low ; 

The  blossoms  in  the  sweet  May  wind 
Were  falling  like  the  snow. 

The  blossoms  drifted  at  our  feet, 
The  orchard  birds  sang  clear ; 

The  sweetest  and  the  saddest  day 
It  seemed  of  all  the  year. 

For,  more  to  me  than  birds  or  flowers, 
My  playmate  left  her  home, 

And  took  with  her  the  laughing  spring 
The  music  and  the  bloom. 


480  MY  PLAYMATE. 

/ 

She  kissed  the  lips  of  kith  and  kin, 

She  laid  her  hand  in  mine ; 
What  more  could  ask  the  bashful  boy 

Who  fed  her  father's  kine  ? 

She  left  us  in  the  bloom  of  May : 
The  constant  years  told  o'er 

Their  seasons  with  as  sweet  May  morns ; 
But  she  came  back  no  more. 

I  walk  with  noiseless  feet  the  round 

Of  uneventful  years ; 
Still  o'er  and  o'er  I  sow  the  spring 

And  reap  the  autumn  ears. 

She  lives  where  all  the  golden  year 

Her  summer  roses  blow ; 
The  dusky  children  of  the  sun 

Before  her  come  and  go. 

There  haply  with  her  jewelled  hands 
She  smooths  her  silken  gown,  — 

No  more  the  homespun  lap  wherein 
I  shook  the  walnuts  down. 

The  wild  grapes  wait  us  by  the  brook, 
The  brown  nuts  on  the  hill, 

And  still  the  May-day  flowers  make  sweet 
The  woods  of  Follymill. 

The  lilies  blossom  in  the  pond, 
The  bird  builds  in  the  tree, 

The  dark  pines  sing  on  Eamoth  hill 
The  slow  song  of  the  sea. 


MY  PLAYMATE.  481 

I  wonder  if  she  thinks  of  them, 

And  how  the  old  time  seems,  — 
If  ever  the  pines  of  Eamoth  wood 

Are  sounding  in  her  dreams. 

I  see  her  face,  I  hear  her  voice : 

Does  she  remember  mine  ? 
And  what  to  her  is  now  the  boy 

"Who  fed  her  father's  kine  ? 

What  cares  she  that  the  orioles  build 

For  other  eyes  than  ours,  — 
That  other  hands  with  nuts  are  filled, 

And  other  laps  with  flowers  ? 

O  playmate  in  the  golden  time  ! 

Our  mossy  seat  is  green, 
Its  fringing  violets  blossom  yet, 

The  old  trees  o'er  it  lean. 

The  winds  so  sweet  with  birch  and  fern 

A  sweeter  memory  blow ; 
And  there  in  spring  the  veeries  sing 

The  song  of  long  ago. 

And  still  the  pines  of  Eamoth  wood 

Are  moaning  like  the  sea,  — 
The  moaning  of  the  sea  of  change 

Between  myself  and  thee  ! 

WHTTTIER. 


31 


482  FREEDOM  IN   DRESS. 


ON   A   GIRDLE. 

THAT  which  her  slender  waist  confined 
Shall  now  my  joyful  temples  bind : 
No  monarch  but  would  give  his  crown 
His  arms  might  do  what  this  has  done. 

A  narrow  compass  !  and  yet  there 
Dwelt  all  that 's  good  and  all  that 's  fair ; 
Give  me  but  what  this  ribbon  bound, 
Take  all  the  rest  the  sun  goes  round. 

EDMUND  WALLER. 


FREEDOM   IN   DRESS. 

STILL  to  be  neat,  still  to  be  drest, 

As  you  were  going  to  a  feast ; 

Still  to  be  powdered,  still  perfumed,  — 

Lady,  it  is  to  be  presumed, 

Though  art's  hid  causes  are  not  found, 

All  is  not  sweet,  all  is  not  sound. 

Give  me  a  look,  give  me  a  face, 

That  makes  simplicity  a  grace  ; 

Robes  loosely  flowing,  hair  as  free,  — 

Such  sweet  neglect  more  taketh  me 

Than  all  the  adulteries  of  art ; 

They  strike  mine  eyes,  but  not  my  heart. 

BEN  JONSON. 


THE   GOOD  MAN.  483 


THE   GOOD   MAN. 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught, 

That  serveth  not  another's  will ; 
Whose  armor  is  his  honest  thought, 

And  simple  truth  his  utmost  skill ! 

Whose  passions  not  his  masters  are, 
Whose  soul  is  still  prepared  for  death, 

Untied  unto  the  worldly  care 
Of  public  fame  or  private  breath ; 

Who  envies  none  that  chance  doth  raise, 

Or  vice ;  who  never  understood 
How  deepest  wounds  are  given  by  praise ; 

Nor  rules  of  state,  but  rules  of  good  ; 

Who  hath  his  life  from  rumors  freed, 
Whose  conscience  is  his  strong  retreat ; 

Whose  state  can  neither  flatterers  feed, 
Nor  ruin  make  oppressors  great ; 

Who  God  doth  late  and  early  pray, 
More  of  his  grace  than  gifts  to  lend; 

And  entertains  the  harmless  day 
With  a  religious  book  or  friend : 

This  man  is  freed  from  servile  bands, 

Of  hope  to  rise,  or  fear  to  fall ; 
Lord  of  himself,  though  not  of  lands ; 

And  having  nothing,  yet  hath  all. 

SIR  HEKRY  WOTTON. 


484  FOR  A'   THAT  AND  A'   THAT. 


FOR  A'   THAT   AND   A   THAT.. 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty, 

Wha  hangs  his  head,  and  a'  that  ? 
The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by, 
We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Our  toils  obscure,  and  a'  that ;' 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea  stamp, 
The  man 's  the  gowd  for  a'  that ! 

What  though  on  namely  fare  we  dine, 

Wear  hodden  gray,  and  a'  that ; 
Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine, 
A  man 's  a  man  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  and  a'  that ; 
The  honest  man,  though  e'er  sae  poor, 
Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that. 

Ye  see  yon  birkie,  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts  and  stares,  and  a'  that ; 
Though  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 
He 's  but  a  coof  for  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

His  ribbon,  star,  and  a'  that, 
The  man  of  independent  mind, 
He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that. 

A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  and  a'  that ; 
But  an  honest  man 's  aboon  his  might, 

Guid  faith,  he  mauna  fa'  that ! 


KILMENY.  485 

For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  dignities,  and  a'  that, 

The  pith  o'  sense,  and  pride  o'  worth, 
Are  higher  ranks  than  a'  that. 

Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may, 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that, 
That  sense  and  worth,  o  'er  a'  the  earth, 
May  bear  the  gree,  and  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

It 's  coining  yet  for  a'  that, 
That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er, 
Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  that. 

BURNS. 

Sung  admirably  by  a  Scotch  singer  at  the  celebration  of  the  opening  of  the  New- 
Bedford  Railroad. 


KILMENY. 

BONNY  Kilmeny  gaed  up  the  glen ; 

But  it  wasna  to  meet  Duneira's  men, 

Nor  the  rosy  monk  of  the  isle  to  see, 

For  Kilmeny  was  pure  as  pure  could  be. 

It  was  only  to  hear  the  yorlin  sing, 

And  pu'  the  cress-flower  round  the  spring,  — 

The  scarlet  hypp,  and  the  hind-berry, 

And  the  nut  that  hung  frae  the  hazel-tree ; 

For  Kilmeny  was  pure  as  pure  could  be. 

But  lang  may  her  minny  look  o'er  the  wa', 

And  lang  may  she  seek  in  the  greenwood  shaw ; 

Lang  the  Laird  of  Duneira  blame, 

And  lang,  lang  greet  ere  Kilmeny  come  hame ! 


486  KILMENY. 

When  many  a  day  had  come  and  fled, 

When  grief  grew  calm,  and  hope  was  dead, 

When  mass  for  Kilmeny's  soul  had  been  sungr 

When  the  bedesman  had  prayed,  and  the  dead-bell  rung, 

Late,  late  in  a  gloaming,  when  all  was  still, 

When  the  fringe  was  red  on  the  westlin  hill, 

The  wood  was  sere,  the  moon  i'  the  wane, 

The  reek  o'  the  cot  hung  o'er  the  plain,  — 

Like  a  little  wee  cloud  in  the  world  its  lane ; 

When  the  ingle  lowed  with  an  eiry  leme, 

Late,  late  in  the  gloaming,  Kilmeny  came  haine  !" 

"  Kilmeny,  Kilmeny,  where  have  you  been  ? 
Lang  hae  we  sought  baith  holt  and  den,  — 
By  linn,  by  ford,  and  greenwood  tree  ; 
Yet  you  are  halesome  and  fair  to  see. 
Where  gat  you  that  joup  o'  the  lily  sheen  ? 
That  bonny  snood  o'  the  birk  sae  green  ? 
And  these  roses,  the  fairest  that  ever  were  seen  ? 
Kilmeny,  Kilmeny,  where  have  you  been  ? " 

Kilmeny  looked  up  with  a  lovely  grace, 

But  nae  smile  was  seen  on  Kilmeny's  face ; 

As  still  was  her  look,  and  as  still  was  her  ee, 

As  the  stillness  that  lay  on  the  emerant  lea, 

Or  the  mist  that  sleeps  on  a  waveless  sea. 

For  Kilmeny  had  been  she  ken'd  not  where, 

And  Kilmeny  had  seen  what  she  could  not  declare ; 

Kilmeny  had  been  where  the  cock  never  crew, 

Where  the  ram  never  fell,  and  the  wind  never  blew ; 

But  it  seemed  as  the  harp  of  the  sky  had  rung, 

And  the  airs  of  heaven  played  round  her  tongue, 

When  she  spake  of  the  lovely  forms  she  had  seen, 

And  a  land  where  sin  had  never  been,  — 


THE  ROVER.  487 

A  land  of  love,  and  a  land  of  light, 
Without/en  sun  or  moon  or  night ; 
Where  the  river  swa'd  a  living  stream, 
And  the  light  a  pure  celestial  beam  : 
The  land  of  vision  it  would  seem, 
A  still  and  everlasting  dream. 

When  a  month  and  day  had  come  and  gane, 
Kilmeny  sought  the  greenwood  wene ; 
There  laid  her  down  on  the  leaves  sae  green, 
And  Kilmeny  on  earth  was  never  mair  seen. 
But,  oh,  the  words  that  fell  from  her  mouth 
Were  words  of  wonder  and  words  of  truth ! 
But  all  the  land  were  in  fear  and  dread, 
For  they  kendna  whether  she  was  living  or  dead. 
It  wasna  her  hame,  and  she  couldna  remain  : 
She  left  this  world  of  sorrow  and  pain, 
And  returned  to  the  land  of  thought  again. 

JA!IES  HOGG,  The  Queen's  Wake. 

EMERSON'S  tones,  as  he  read  this  aloud,  still  cling  to  it. 


THE   ROVER 

THUS  said  the  Rover 
Unto  his  gallant  crew  : 
"  Up  with  the  black  flag, 
Down  with  the  blue !  — 
Fire  on  the  maintop, 
Fire  on  the  bow, 
Fire  on  the  gun-deck, 
i  Fire  down  below ! " 

SCOTT,  The  Pirate. 


488  ALICE  BRAND. 


ALICE  BRAND. 

MEKEY  it  is  in  the  good  greenwood, 
When  the  mavis  and  merle  are  singing, 

When  the-  deer  sweeps  by,  and  the  hounds  are  in  cry, 
And  the  hunter's  horn  is  ringing. 

"  0  Alice  Brand,  my  native  land 

Is  lost  for  love  of  you  ; 
And  we  must  hold  by  wood  and  wold, 

As  outlaws  wont  to  do. 

"  O  Alice,  't  was  all  for  thy  locks  so  bright, 

And  't  was  all  for  thine  eyes  so  blue, 
That  on  the  night  of  our  luckless  flight 

Thy  brother  bold  I  slew. 

"  Now  must  I  teach  to  hew  the  beech 

The  hand  that  held  the  glaive, 
For  leaves  to  spread  our  lowly  bed, 

And  stakes  to  fence  our  cave. 

"  And  for  vest  of  pall,  thy  fingers  small, 

That  wont  on  harp  to  stray, 
A  cloak  must  shear  from  the  slaughtered  deer, 

To  keep  the  cold  away." 

"  O  Richard  !  if  my  brother  died, 

'T  was  but  a  fatal  chance  ; 
For  darkling  was  the  battle  tried, 

And  fortune  sped  the  lance. 


ALICE  BRAND.  489 

"  If  pall  and  vair  no  more  I  wear, 

Nor  thou  the  crimson  sheen, 
As  warm,  we  '11  say,  is  the  russet  gray, 

As  gay  the  forest  green. 

"  And,  Richard,  if  our  lot  be  hard, 

And  lost  thy  native  land, 
Still  Alice  has  her  awn  Richard, 

And  he  his  Alice  Brand." 

'T  is  merry,  'tis  merry,  in  good  greenwood, 

So  blithe  Lady  Alice  is  singing ; 
On  the  beech's  pride,  and  oak's  brown  side, 

Lord  Richard's  axe  is  ringing. 

Up  spoke  the  moody  Elfin  King, 

Who  woned  within  the  hill,  — 

• 

Like  wind  in  the  porch  of  a  ruined  church, 
His  voice  was  ghostly  shrill. 

"  Why  sounds  yon  stroke  on  beech  and  oak, 

Our  moonlight  circle's  screen  ? 
Or  who  comes  here  to  chase  the  deer, 

Beloved  of  our  Elfin  Queen  ? 
Or  who  may  dare  on  wold  to  wear 
The  fairies'  fatal  green  ? 

"  Up,  Urgan,  up  !  to  yon  mortal  hie, 

For  thou  wert  christened  man : 
For  cross  or  sign  thou  wilt  not  fly, 

For  muttered  word  or  ban." 

'T  is  merry,  't  is  merry,  in  good  greenwood, 
Though  the  birds  have  stilled  their  singing ; 

The  evening  blaze  doth  Alice  raise, 
And  Richard  is  fagots  bringing. 


ALICE   BRAND. 

Up  Urgan  starts,  that  hideous  dwarf, 

Before  Lord  Richard  stands, 
And,  as  he  crossed  and  blessed  himself, 
"  I  fear  not  sign,"  quoth  the  grisly  elf, 

"  That  is  made  with  bloody  hands." 

But  out  then  spoke  she.,  Alice  Brand, 

That  woman  void  of  fear,  — 
"  And  if  there  's  blood  upon  his  hand, 

T  is  but  the  blood  of  deer." 

"  Now  loud  thou  liest,  thou  bold  of  mood ! 

It  cleaves  unto  his  hand, 
The  stain  of  thine  own  kindly  blood, 

The  blood  of  Ethert  Brand." 

Then  forward  stepped  she,  Alice  Brand, 

And  made  the  holy  sign,  — 
"  And  if  there  's  blood  on  Richard's  hand, 
.  A  spotless  hand  is  mine. 

"  And  I  conjure  thee,  demon  elf, 

By  Him  whom  demons  fear, 
To  show  us  whence  thou  art  thyself, 

And  what  thine  errand  here  ?  " 

"  It  was  between  the  night  and  day, 
When  the  Fairy  King  has  power, 
That  I  sunk  down  in  a  sinful  fray, 
And,  'twixt  life  and  death,  was  snatched  away 
To  the  joyless  Elfin  bower. 

"But  wist  I  of  a  woman  bold, 
Who  thrice  my  brow  durst  sign, 

I  might  regain  my  mortal  mould, 
As  fair  a  form  as  thine." 


MY  MINDE    TO  ME  A   KINGDOM  IS.  491 

She  crossed  hiin  once,  she  crossed  him  twice,  — 

That  lady  was  so  brave ; 
The  fouler  grew  his  goblin  hue, 

The  darker  grew  the  cave. 

She  crossed  him  thrice,  that  lady  bold  ; 

He  rose  beneath  her  hand 
The  fairest  knight  on  Scottish  mould, 

Her  brother,  Ethert  Brand  ! 

Merry  it  is  in  good  greenwood, 

When  the  mavis  and  rnerle  are  singing ; 

But  merrier  were  they  in  Dunfermline  gray, 
When  all  the  bells  were  ringing. 

SCOTT,  Lady  of  the  Lake. 
S.  F.  loves  this. 


MY   MINDE  TO   ME  A  KINGDOM   IS. 

MY  minde  to  me  a  kingdom  is ; 

Such  perfect  joy  therein  I  finde 
As  farre  exceeds  all  earthly  blisse 

That  God  or  nature  hath  assignde ; 
Though  much  I  want  that  most  would  have, 
Yet  still  my  minde  forbids  to  crave. 

Content  I  live  ;  this  is  my  stay,  - — 
I  seek  no  more  than  may  suffice. 

I  presse  to  beare  no  haughtie  sway ; 
Look,  what  I  lack  my  minde  supplies. 

Loe,  thus  I  triumph  like  a  king, 

Content  with  that  my  minde  doth  bring. 


492  MY  'MINDE   TO  ME  A   KINGDOM  IS. 

I  see  how  plentie  surfets  oft, 

And  hastie  clymbers  soonest  fall ; 

I  see  that  such  as  sit  aloft 

Mishap  doth  threaten  most  of  all. 

These  get  with  toile,  and  keepe  with  feare  ; 

Such  cares  my  minde  could  never  beare. 

No  princely  ponipe  nor  welthie  store, 
No  force  to  win  the  victorie, 

No  wylie  wit  to  salve  a  sore, 

No  shape  to  winne  a  lover's  eye,  — 

To  none  of  these  I  yeeld  as  thrall ; 

For  why,  my  minde  despiseth  all. 

Some  have  too  much,  yet  still  they  crave ; 

I  little  have,  yet  seek  no  more. 
They  are  but  poore,  though  much  they  have, 

And  I  am  rich  with  little  store. 
They  poor,  I  rich  ;  they  beg,  I  give  ; 
They  lacke,  1  lend ;  they  pine,  I  live. 

I  laugh  not  at  another's  losse, 
I  grudge  not  at  another's  gaine ; 

No  worldly  wave  my  minde  can  tosse ; 
I  brooke  that  is  another's  bane. 

I  feare  no  foe,  nor  fawne  on  friend ; 

I  lothe  not  life,  nor  dread  mine  end. 

I  joy  not  in  no  earthly  blisse  ; 

I  weigh  not  Cresus'  wealth  a  straw ; 
For  care,  I  care  not  what  it  is ; 

I  feare  not  fortune's  fatal  law ; 
My  minde  is  such  as  may  not  move 
For  beautie  bright,  or  force  of  love. 


ADOU  BEN  ADHEM.  493 

I  wish  but  what  I  have  at  will ; 

I  wander  not  to  seeke  for  more ; 
I  like  the  plaine,  I  clime  no  hill ; 

In  greatest  stormes  I  sitte  on  shore, 
And  laugh  at  them  that  toile  in  vaine 
To  get  what  must  be  lost  againe. 

I  kisse  not  where  I  wish  to  kill ; 

I  feigne  not  love  where  most  I  hate ; 
I  breake  no  sleepe  to  winne  my  will ; 

I  wayte  not  at  the  mightie's  gate. 
I  scorne  no  poore,  I  feare  no  rich ; 
I  feele  no  want,  nor  have  too  much. 

The  court  ne  cart  I  like  ne  loath,  — 

Extreames  are  counted  worst  of  all ; 
The  golden  meane  betwixt  them  both 

Doth  surest  sit,  and  feares  no  fall ; 
This  is  my  choyce  ;  for  why,  I  fincle 
No  wealth  is  like  a  quiet  minde. 

My  wealth  is  health  and  perfect  ease  ; 

My  conscience  clere  my  chief e  defence ; 
I  never  seek  by  bribes  to  please, 

Nor  by  desert  to  give  offence. 
Thus  do  I  live,  thus  will  I  die  ; 
Would  all  did  so  as  well  as  I ! 

WILLIAM  BYRD. 


ABOU  BEN  ADHEM  (may  his  tribe  increase !) 
Awoke  one  night  from  a  deep  dream  of  peace, 
And  saw  within  the  moonlight  in  his  room. 
Making  it  rich  and  like  a  lily  in  bloom, 


494  THANATOPSIS. 

An  angel  writing  in  a  book  of  gold ; 

Exceeding  peace  had  made  Ben  Adhem  bold, 

And  to  the  Presence  in  the  room  he  said, 

"  What  writest  thou  ? "  The  vision  raised  its  head, 

And  with  a  look  made  of  all  sweet  accord, 

Answered,  "The  names  of  those  who  love  the  Lord." 

"  And  is  mine  one  ?''  said  Abou.     "  Nay,  not  so," 

Replied  the  angel.     Abou  spoke  more  low, 

But  cheerly  still ;  and  said,  "  I  pray  thee,  then, 

Write  me  as  one  that  loves  his  fellow-men." 

The  angel  wrote,  and  vanished.     The  next  night 

It  came  again,  with  a  great  wakening  light, 

And  showed  the  names  whom  love  of  God  had  blessed, 

And,  lo !  Ben  Adhem's  name  led  all  the  rest. 

LEIGH  HUNT. 
First  quoted  by  R.  W.  E. 


THANATOPSIS. 

YET  a  few  days,  and  thee 
The  all-beholding  sun  shall  see  no  more 
In  all  his  course ;  nor  yet  in  the  cold  ground, 
Where  thy  pale  form  was  laid,  with  many  tears, 
Nor  in  the  embrace  of  ocean,  shall  exist 
Thy  image.     Earth,  that  nourished  thee,  shall  claim 
Thy  growth,  to  be  resolved  to  earth  again ; 
And  lost  each  human  trace,  surrendering  up 
Thine  individual  being,  shalt  thou  go 
To  mix  forever  with  the  elements, 
To  be  a  brother  to  the  insensible  rock, 
And  to  the  sluggish  clod,  which  the  rude  swain 
Turns  with  his  share,  and  treads  upon.     The  oak 
Shall  send  his  roots  abroad,  and  pierce  thy  mould. 


THAN  A  TOPSIS.  495 

Yet  not  to  thy  eternal  resting-place 

Shalt  thou  retire  alone,  —  nor  couldst  thou  wish 

Couch  more  magnificent.     Thou  shalt  lie  down 

With  patriarchs  of  the  infant  world,  —  with  kings, 

The  powerful  of  the  earth,  —  the  wise,  the  good, 

Fair  forms,  and  hoary  seers  of  ages  past, 

All  in  one  mighty  sepulchre.     The  hills 

Eock-ribbed  and  ancient  as  the  sun,  —  the  vales 

Stretching  in  pensive  quietness  between ; 

The  venerable  woods,  —  rivers  that  move 

In  majesty,  and  the  complaining  brooks 

That  make  the  meadows  green ;  and  poured  round  all, 

Old  ocean's  gray  and  melancholy  waste,  — 

Are  but  the  solemn  decorations  all 

Of  the  great  tomb  of  man.     The  golden  sun, 

The  planets,  all  the  infinite  host  of  heaven, 

Are  shining  on  the  sad  abodes  of  death, 

Through  the  still  lapse  of  ages.     All  that  tread 

The  globe  are  but  a  handful  to  the  tribes 

That  slumber  in  its  bosom. 

So  live,  that  when  thy  summons  comes  to  join 
The  innumerable  caravan,  that  moves 
To  that  mysterious  realm,  where  each  shall  take 
His  chamber  in  the  silent  halls  of  death, 
Thou  go  not,  like  the  quarry-slave  at  night, 
Scourged  to  his  dungeon,  but,  sustained  and  soothed 
By  an  unfaltering  trust,  approach  thy  grave, 
Like  one  who  wraps  the  drapery  of  his  couch 
About  him,  and  lies  down  to  pleasant  dreams. 

BRYANT. 
Recalled  by  W.  S.  at  SWAN  ISLAND. 


496     ELEGY  WRITTEN  IN  A  COUNTRY  CHURCHYARD. 


ELEGY   WRITTEN   IN   A  COUNTRY   CHURCHYARD. 

THE  curfew  tolls  the  knell  of  parting  day, 
The  lowing  herd  winds  slowly  o'er  the  lea, 

The  ploughman  homeward  plods  his  weary  way, 
And  leaves  the  world  to  darkness  and  to  me. 

Beneath  those  rugged  elms,  that  yew-tree's  shade, 
Where  heaves  the  turf  in  many  a  mouldering  heap, 

Each  in  his  narrow  cell  forever  laid, 

The  rude  forefathers  of  the  hamlet  sleep. 

The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn, 

The  swallow  twittering  from  the  straw-built  shed, 

The  cock's  shrill  clarion,  or  the  echoing  horn, 
No  more  shall  rouse  them  from  their  lowly  bed. 

For  them  no  more  the  blazing  hearth  shall  burn, 
Or  busy  housewife  ply  her  evening  care  ; 

No  children  run  to  lisp  their  sire's  return, 
Or  climb  his  knees  the  envied  kiss  to  share. 

Perhaps  in  this  neglected  spot  is  laid 

Some  heart  once  pregnant  with  celestial  fire  ; 

Hands,  that  the  rod  of  empire  might  have  swayed 
Or  waked  to  ecstasy  the  living  lyre. 

Full  many  a  gem  of  purest  ray  serene 

The  dark  unfathomed  caves  of  ocean  bear : 

Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desert  air. 


.  DEATH'S  FINAL    CONQUEST.  497 

Some  village  Hampden,  that  with  dauntless  breast 

The  little  tyrant  of  his  fields  withstood, 
Some  mute,  inglorious  Milton  here  may  rest, 

Some  Cromwell,  guiltless  of  his  country's  blood. 

Far  from  the  madding  crowd's  ignoble  strife 
Their  sober  wishes  never  learned  to  stray : 

Along  the  cool,  sequestered  vale  of  life 

They  kept  the  noiseless  tenor  of  their  way. 

Yet  e'en  these  bones  from  insult  to  protect, 

Some  frail  memorial  still  erected  nigh, 
With  uncouth  rhymes  and  shapeless  sculpture  decked, 

Implores  the  passing  tribute  of  a  sigh. 

For  who.  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey, 
This  pleasing,  anxious  being  e'er  resigned, 

Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheerful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind  ? 

GRAY. 


DEATH'S   FINAL  CONQUEST. 

THE  glories  of  our  birth  and  state 

Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things  ; 
There  is  no  armor  against  fate,  — 
Death  lays  his  icy  hands  on  kings ; 
Sceptre  and  crown 
Must  tumble  down, 
And  in  the  dust  be  equal  made 
With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 

f>2 


498  THE  IMMORTAL   MIND. 

Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field, 
And  plant  fresh  laurels  where  they  kill ; 
But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  yield,  — 
They  tame  but  one  another  still ; 
Early  or  late 
They  stoop  to  fate, 

And  must  give  up  their  murmuring  breath, 
When  they,  pale  captives,  creep  to  death. 

The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow  — 

Then  boast  no  more  your  mighty  deeds  ; 
Upon  death's  purple  altar,  now, 
See  where  the  victor  victim  bleeds. 
All  heads  must  come 
To  the  cold  tomb,  — 
Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet,  and  blossom  in  the  dust. 

SHIRLEY. 


THE   IMMOETAL   MIND. 

WHEN  coldness  wraps  this  suffering  clay, 

Ah,  whither  strays  the  immortal  mind  ? 
It  cannot  die,  it  cannot  stay, 

But  leaves  its  darkened  dust  behind. 
Then,  unembodied,  doth  it  trace 

By  steps  each  planet's  heavenly  way  ? 
Or  fill  at  once  the  'realms  of  space, 

A  thing  of  eyes,  that  all  survey  ? 

Eternal,  boundless,  undecayed, 
A  thought  unseen,  but  seeing  all, 

All,  all  in  earth,  or  skies  displayed, 
Shall  it  survey,  shall  it  recall : 


AN  ODE.  499 

Each  fainter  trace  that  memory  holds, 

So  darkly  of  departed  years, 
In  one  broad  glance  the  soul  beholds, 

And  all,  that  was,  at  once  appears. 

Before  creation  peopled  earth, 

Its  eyes  shall  roll  through  chaos  back ; 

And  where  the  farthest  heaven  had  birth, 
The  spirit  trace  its  rising  track. 

And  where  the  future  mars  or  makes, 
'  Its  glance  dilate  o'er  all  to  be, 

While  sun  is  quenched  or  system  breaks, 
Fixed  in  its  own  eternity. 

Above  or  love,  hope,  hate,  or  fear, 

It  lives  all  passionless  and  pure : 
An  age  shall  fleet  like  earthly  year ; 

Its  years  as  moments  shall  endure. 
Away,  away,  without  a  whig, 
•    O'er  all,  through  all,  its  thoughts  shall  fly ; 
A  nameless  and  eternal  thing, 

Forgetting  what  it  was  to  die. 


BYRON. 


AN    ODE. 

THE  spacious  firmament  on  high, 

With  all  the  blue  ethereal  sky, 

And  spangled  heavens,  a  shining  frame, 

Their  great  Original  proclaim. 

The  unwearied  sun,  from  day  to  day, 

Does  his  Creator's  power  display, 

And  publishes  to  every  land 

The  work  of  an  Almighty  hand. 


500  JEPHTHA'S  DAUGHTER. 

Soon  as  the  evening  shades  prevail, 
The  moon  takes  up  the  wondrous  tale, 
And  nightly,  to  the  listening  earth, 
Repeats  the  story  of  her  birth ; 
Whilst  all  the  stars  that  round  her  burn, 
And  all  the  planets  in  their  turn, 
Confirm  the  tidings  as  they  roll, 
And  spread  the  truth  from  pole  to  pole. 

What  though,  in  solemn  silence,  all 
Move  round  this  dark,  terrestrial  ball  ? 
What  though  nor  real  voice  nor  sound 
Amidst  their  radiant  orbs  be  found  ? 
In  reason's  ear  they  all  rejoice, 
And  utter  forth  a  glorious  voice, 
Forever  singing  as  they  shine, 
"  The  hand  that  made  us  is  divine." 

ADDISON. 


JEPHTHA'S   DAUGHTER 

SINCE  our  country,  our  God,  0  my  sire ! 
Demand  that  thy  daughter  expire ; 
Since  thy  triumph  was  bought  by  thy  vow,  - 
Strike  the  bosom  that 's  bared  for  thee  now  ! 

And  the  voice  of  my  mourning  is  o'er, 
And  the  mountains  behold  me  no  more : 
If  the  hand  that  I  love  lay  me  low, 
There  cannot  be  pain  in  the  blow ! 

And  of  this,  0  my  father  !  be  sure,  — 
That  the  blood  of  thy  child  is  as  pure 


PSALM  XVIII.  501 

As  the  blessing  I  beg  ere  it  flow, 

And  the  last  thought  that  soothes  me  below. 

Though  the  virgins  of  Salem  lament, 
Be  the  judge  and  the  hero  unbent ! 
I  have  won  the  great  battle  for  thee, 
And  my  father  and  country  are  free ! 

When  this  blood  of  thy  giving  hath  gushed, 
When  the  voice  that  thou  lovest  is  hushed, 
Let  my  memory  still  hjp  thy  pride, 

And  forget  not  I  smiled  as  I  died ! 

BYRON. 


PSALM   XVIII. 

THE  Lord  descended  from  above, 
And  bowed  the  heavens  high ; 

And  underneath  his  feet  he  cast 
The  darkness  of  the  sky. 

On  Cherubim  and  Seraphim 

Full  royally  he  rode ; 
And  on  the  wings  of  mighty  winds 

Came  flying  all  abroad. 

He  sat  serene  upon  the  floods, 

Their  fury  to  restrain ; 
And  he  as  Sovereign  Lord  and  King, 

Forevermore  shall  reign. 

STEBNHOLD. 

OnviiXE  DEWEY'S  voice  runs  through  this. 


502  BOA  DICE  A. 


BOADICEA. 

WHEN  the  British  warrior  queen, 
Bleeding  from  the  Eoman  rods, 

Sought,  with  an  indignant  mien, 
Counsel  of  her  country's  gods, 

Sage  beneath  the  spreading  oak 
Sat  the  druid,  hoary  chief ; 

Every  burning  word  he  spoke 
Full  of  rage  and  full  of  grief. 

"  Princess  !  if  our  aged  eyes 

Weep  upon  thy  matchless  wrongs, 

'T  is  because  resentment  ties 
All  the  terrors  of  our  tongues. 

"  Home  shall  perish,  —  write  that  word 
In  the  blood  that  she  has  spilt,  — 

Perish,  hopeless  and  abhorred, 
Deep  in  ruin  as  in  guilt. 

"  Eome,  for  empire  far  renowned, 
Tramples  on  a  thousand  states ; 

Soon  her  pride  shall  kiss  the  ground : 
Hark  !  the  Gaul  is  at  her  gates  ! 

"  Other  Eomans  shall  arise, 
Heedless  of  a  soldier's  name ; 

Sounds,  not  arms,  shall  win  the  prize, 
Harmony  the  path  to  fame. 

"  Then  the  progeny  that  springs 
From  the  forests  of  our  land, 


HOTSPUR.  503 

Armed  with  thunder,  clad  with  wings, 
Shall  a  wider  world  command. 

Regions  Caesar  never  knew 

Thy  posterity  shall  sway ; 
Where  his  eagles  never  flew, 

None  invincible  as  they." 

Such  the  bard's  prophetic  words, 

Pregnant  with  celestial  fire, 
Bending  as  he  swept  the  chords 

Of  his  sweet  but  awful  lyre. 

She,  with  all  a  monarch's  pride, 

Felt  them  in  her  bosom  glow : 
Rushed  to  battle,  fought,  and  died ; 

Dying,  hurled  them  at  the  foe. 

Ruffians !  pitiless  as  proud,  . 

Heaven  awards  the  vengeance  due ; 
Empire  is  on  us  bestowed, 

Shame  and  ruin  wait  for  you. 

COWPER. 


HOTSPUR. 

Hotspur.  Send  danger  from  the  east  unto  the  west, 
So  honor  cross  it  from  the  north  to  south, 
And  let  them  grapple :  —  Oh  !  the  blood  more  stirs 
To  rouse  a  lion  than  to  start  a  hare. 

By  Heaven,  methinks  it  were  an  easy  leap, 

To  pluck  bright  honor  from  the  pale-faced  moon  ; 


504  BANNOCKBURN. 

Or  dive  into  the  bottom  of  the  deep, 

Where  fathom  line  could  never  touch  the  ground, 

And  pluck  up  drowned  honor  by  the  locks,: 

So  he  that  doth  redeem  her  thence,  might  wear, 

Without  corrival,  all  her  dignities  : 

But  out  upon  this  half-faced  fellowship ! 

SHAKSPKARE,  King  Henry  IV. 


BANNOCKBUKN. 

ROBERT   BRUCE'S   ADDRESS   TO  HIS   ARMY. 
AIR  :  "  Hey,  tuttie  taitie." 

SCOTS  ,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled, 
Scots,  wham  Bruce  has  aften  led, 
Welcome  to  your  gory  bed, 
Or  to  glorious  victorie. 

Now 's  the  day,  and  now  's  the  hour ; 
See  the  front  o'  battle  lour : 
See  approach  proud  Edward's  pow'r  — 
Edward  !  chains  and  slaverie  ! 

Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave  ? 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave  ? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave  ? 

Traitor !  coward  !  turn  and  flee  ? 

Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Freeman  stand,  or  freeman  fa'(? 
Caledonian  !  on  wi'  me  ! 


BATTLE    OF   THE  BALTIC.  505 

By  Oppression's  woes  and  pains  ! 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains, 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins, 

But  they  shall  —  they  shall  be  free  ! 

Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low  ! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe  ! 
Liberty 's  in  every  blow  !  — 

Forward !  let  us  do,  or  die  ! 

BURNS. 


BATTLE   OF   THE   BALTIC. 

OF  Nelson  and  the  North, 
Sing  the  glorious  day's  renown, 
When  to  battle  fierce  came  forth 
All  the  might  of  Denmark's  crown, 
And  her  arms  along  the  deep  proudly  shone ; 
By  each  gun  the  lighted  brand, 
In  a  bold,  determined  hand, 
And  the  Prince  of  all  the  land 
Led  them  on. 

Like  leviathans  afloat 
Lay  their  bulwarks  on  the  brine, 
While  the  sign  of  battle  flew 
On  the  lofty  British  line ; 
It  was  ten  of  April  morn  by  the  chime : 
As  they  drifted  on  their  path, 
There  was  silence  deep  as  death, 
And  the  boldest  held  his  breath 
For  a  time. 


506  BATTLE   OF   THE  BALTIC. 

But  the  might  of  England  flushed 
To  anticipate  the  scene, 
And  her  van  the  fleeter  rushed 
O'er  the  deadly  space  between. 

"  Hearts  of  oak  ! "  our  captains  cried ;  when  each  gun 
From  its  adamantine  lips 
Spread  a  death-shade  round  the  ships, 
Like  the  hurricane  eclipse 
Of  the  sun. 

Again !  again  !  again  ! 
And  the  havoc  did  not  slack, 
Till  a  feeble  cheer  the  Dane 
To  our  cheering  sent  us  back. 
Their  shots  along  the  deep  slowly  boom ; 
Then  ceased  —  and  all  is  wail, 
As  they  strike  the  shattered  sail, 
Or,  in  conflagration  pale, 
Light  the  gloom. 

Out  spoke  the  victor  then, 
As  he  hailed  them  o'er  the  wave, 
"  Ye  are  brothers  !  ye  are  men  ! 
And  we  conquer  but  to  save ! 
So  peace,  instead  of  death,  let  us  bring ! 
But  yield,  proud  foe,  thy  fleet, 
With  the  crews,  at  England's  feet, 
And  make  submission  meet 
To  our  king ! " 

Then  Denmark  blessed  our  chief, 
That  he  gave  her  wounds  repose ; 
And  the  sounds  of  joy  and  grief 
From  her  people  wildly  rose, 


YE  MARINERS   OF  ENGLAND!  507 

As  death  withdrew  his  shades  from  the  day ; 
While  the  sun  looked  smiling  bright 
O'er  a  wide  and  woful  sight, 
Where  the  fires  of  funeral  light 
Died  away. 

Now  joy,  Old  England,  raise  ! 
For  the  tidings  of  thy  might, 
By  the  festal  cities'  blaze, 
Whilst  the  wine-cup  shines  in,  light ; 
And  yet  amidst  that  joy  and  uproar, 
Let  us  think  of  them  that  sleep, 
Full  many  a  fathom  deep, 
By  thy  wild  and  stormy  steep, 
Elsinore ! 

Brave  hearts  !  to  Britain's  pride 

Once  so  faithful  and  so  true, 

On  the  deck  of  fame  that  died, 

With  the  gallant  good  Eiou  ; 

Soft  sigh  the  winds  of  heaven  o'er  their  grave ! 

While  the  billow  mournful  rolls, 

And  the  mermaid's  song  condoles, 

Singing  glory  to  the  souls 

Of  the  brave ! 

CAMPBELL. 


YE   MARINEKS   OF  ENGLAND  ! 

A   NAVAL   ODE. 

YE  mariners  of  England  ! 

That  guard  our  native  seas ; 
Whose  flag  has  braved,  a  thousand  years, 

The  battle  and  the  breeze  : 


508  YE  MARINERS   OF  ENGLAND. 

Your  glorious  standard  launch  again, 

To  match  another  foe ! 
And  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow ; 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  spirit  of  your  fathers 

Shall  start  from  every  wave ! 
For  the  deck  it  was  their  field  of  fame, 

And  ocean  was  their  graye  ; 
Where  Blake  and  mighty  Nelson  fell, 

Your  manly  hearts  shall  glow, 
As  ye  sweep  through  the  deep, 

While  the  stormy  winds  do  blow ; 
While  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

Britannia  needs  no  bulwark, 

No  towers  along  the  steep ; 
Her  march  is  o'er  the  mountain  waves, 

Her  home  is  on  the  deep. 
With  thunders  from  her  native  oak 

She  quells  the  floods  below, 
As  they  roar  on  the  shore, 

When  the  stormy  winds  do  blo.w ; 
When  the  battle  rages  loud  and  long, 

And  the  stormy  winds  do  blow. 

The  meteor  flag  of  England 

Shall  yet  terrific  burn, 
Till  danger's  trqubled  night  depart, 

And  the  star  of  peace  return. 
Then,  then,  ye  ocean  warriors, 

Our  song  and  feast  shall  flow 


HOHENLINDEN.  509. 

To  the  fame  of  your  name, 

When  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow ; 
When  the  fiery  tight  is  heard  no  more, 

And  the  storm  has  ceased  to  blow. 

CAMPBELL. 


HOHENLINDEN. 

ON  Linden,  when  the  sun  was  low, 
All  bloodless  lay  the  untrodden  snow, 
And  dark  as  winter  was  the  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 

But  Linden  saw  another  sight 
When  the  drum  beat,  at  dead  of  night, 
Commanding  fires  of  death  to  light 
The  darkness  of  her  scenery. 

By  torch  and  trumpet  fast  arrayed, 
Each  horseman  drew  his  battle-blade, 
And  furious  every  charger  neighed 
To  join  the  dreadful  revelry. 

Then  shook  the  hills  with  thunder  riven ; 
Then  rushed  the  steeds  to  battle  driven ; 
And,  louder  than  the  bolts  of  heaven, 
Far  flashed  the  red  artillery. 

But  redder  yet  those  fires  shall  glow 
On  Linden's  hills  of  crimsoned  snow, 
And  bloodier  yet  the  torrent  flow 
Of  Iser,  rolling  rapidly. 


510  WATERLOO. 

'T  is  morn ;  but  scarce  yon  lurid  sun 
Can  pierce  the  war-clouds,  rolling  dun, 
Where  furious  Frank  and  fiery  Hun 
Shout  in  their  sulphurous  canopy. 

The  combat  deepens.     On,  ye  brave, 
Who  rush  to  glory,  or  the  grave  ! 
Wave,  Munich,  all  thy  banners  wave ! 
And  charge  with  all  thy  chivalry ! 

Few,  few  shall  part  where  many  meet ! 
The  snow  shall  be  their  winding-sheet; 
And  every  turf  beneath  their  feet 
Shall  be  a  soldier's  sepulchre. 


CAMPBELL. 


WATEELOO. 

THERE  was  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night, 
And  Belgium's  capital  had  gathered  then 
Her  beauty  and  her  chivalry,  and  bright 
The  lamps  shone  o'er  fair  women  and  brave  men : 
A  thousand  hearts  beat  happily ;  and  when 
Music  arose  with  its  voluptuous  swell, 
Soft  eyes  looked  love  to  eyes  which  spake  again, 
And  all  went  merry  as  a  marriage  bell ; 
But  hush !  hark !  a  deep  sound  strikes  like  a  rising  knell ! 

Did  ye  not  hear  it  ?  —  No  ;  't  was  but  the  wind, 

Or  the  car  rattling  o'er  the  stony  street : 

On  with  the  dance!  let  joy  be  unconfined; 

No  sleep  till  morn;  when  youth  and  pleasure  meet 

To  chase  the  glowing  hours  with  flying  feet. 


WATERLOO.  511 

But,  hark !  —  that  heavy  sound  breaks  in  once  more, 
As  if  the  clouds  its  echo  would  repeat, 
And  nearer,  clearer,  deadlier  than  before ! 
Arm  !  arm  !  it  is  —  it  is  —  the  cannon's  opening  roar ! 

"Within  a  windowed  niche  of  that  high  hall 
Sate  Brunswick's  fated  chieftain :  he  did  hear 
That  sound  the  first  amidst  the  festival, 
And  caught  its  tone  with  death's  prophetic  ear ; 
And  when  they  smiled  because  he  deemed  it  near, 
His  heart  more  truly  knew  that  peal  too  well 
Which  stretched  his  father  on  a  bloody  bier, 
And  roused  the  vengeance  blood  alone  could  quell : 
He  rushed  into  the  field,  and,  foremost  fighting,  fell. 

Ah !  then  and  there  was  hurrying  to  and  fro, 
And  gathering  tears, 'and  tremblings  of  distress, 
And  cheeks  all  pale,  which  but  an  hour  ago 
Blushed  at  the  praise  of  their  own  loveliness; 
And  there  were  sudden  partings,  such  as  press 
The  life  from  out  young  hearts,  and  choking  sighs 
Which  ne'er  might  be  repeated :  who  could  guess 
If  ever  more  should  meet  those  mutual  eyes, 
Since  upon  night  so  sweet  such  awful  morn  could  rise  ? 

And  there  was  mounting  in  hot  haste :  the  steed, 
The  mustering  squadron,  and  the  clattering  car, 
Went  pouring  forward  with  impetuous  speed, 
And  swiftly  forming  in  the  ranks  of  war; 
And  the  deep  thunder  peal  on  peal  afar ; 
And  near,  the  beat  of  the  alarming  drum 
Roused  up  the  soldier  ere  the  morning  star ; 
While  thronged  the  citizens  with  terror  dumb, 
Or  whispering  with  white  lips,  "  The  foe !  they  come !  they  come ! " 

BYRON,  Cliilde  Harold. 


512  THE    WARDEN  OF   THE  CINQUE   PORTS. 


THE  WARDEN   OF   THE  CINQUE   PORTS. 

A  MIST  was  driving  down  the  British  Channel, 

The  day  was  just  begun, 
And  through  the  window-panes,  on  floor  and  panel, 

Streamed  the  red  autumn  sun. 

It  glanced  on  flowing  flag  and  rippling  pennon, 

And  the  white  sails  of  ships ; 
And,  from  the  frowning  rampart,  the  black  cannon 

Hailed  it  with  feverish  lips. 

Sandwich  and  Romney,  Hastings,  Hithe,  and  Dover 

Were  all  alert  that  day, 
To  see  the  French  war-steamers  speeding  over, 

When  the  fog  cleared  away. 

Sullen  and  silent,  and  like  couchant  lions, 

Their  cannon,  through  the  night, 
Holding  their  breath,  had  watched,  in  grim  defiance, 

The  sea-coast  opposite. 

And  now  they  roared  at  drum-beat  from  their  stations 

On  every  citadel ; 
Each  answering  each,  with  morning  salutations, 

That  all  was  well. 

And  down  the  coast,  all  taking  up  the  burden, 

Replied  the  distant  forts, 
As  if  to  summon  from  his  sleep  the  Warden 

And  Lord  of  the  Cinque  Ports. 

Him  shall  no  sunshine  from  the  fields  of  azure, 
No  drum-beat  from  the  wall, 


ICHABOD.  513 

No  morning-gun  from  the  black  fort's  embrasure, 
Awaken  with  its  call ! 

No  more,  surveying  with  an  eye  impartial 

The  long  line  of  the  coast, 
Shall  the  gaunt  figure  of  the  old  Field  Marshal 

Be  seen  upon  his  post ! 

For  in  the  night,  unseen,  a  single  warrior, 

In  sombre  harness  mailed, 
Dreaded  of  man,  and  surnamed  the  Destroyer, 

The  rampart  wall  had  scaled. 

He  passed  into  the  chamber  of  the  sleeper, 

The  dark  and  silent  room ; 
And  as  he  entered,  darker  grew,  and  deeper, 

The  silence  and  the  gloom. 

He  did  not  pause  to  parley  or  dissemble, 

But  smote  the  Warden  hoar; 
Ah !  what  a  blow !  that  made  all  England  tremble 

And  groan  from  shore  to  shore. 

Meanwhile,  without,  the  surly  cannon  waited, 

The  sun  rose  bright  o'erhead ; 
Nothing  in  Nature's  aspect  intimated 

That  a  great  man  was  dead. 

LONGFELLOW. 


ICHABOD  ! 

So  fallen  !  so  lost !  the  light  withdrawn 

Which  once  he  wore  ! 
The  glory  from  his  gray  hairs  gone 

Forevermore ! 

33 


514  1C  HA  BOD. 

Eevile  him  not,  —  the  tempter  hath 

A  snare  for  all ; 
And  pitying  tears,  not  scorn  and  wrath, 

Befit  his  fall ! 

Oh,  dumb  be  passion's  stormy  rage, 

When  he  who  might 
Have  lighted  up  and  led  his  age, 

Falls  back  in  night. 

Scorn  !  would  the  angels  laugh,  to  mark 

A  bright  soul  driven, 
Fiend-goaded,  down  the  endless  dark, 

From  hope  and  heaven  ? 

Let  not  the  land  once  proud  of  him 

Insult  him  now, 
Nor  brand  with  deeper  shame  his  dim, 

Dishonored  brow. 

But  let  its  humbled  sons,  instead, 

From  sea  to  lake, 
A  long  lament,  as  for  the  dead, 

In  sadness  make. 

Of  all  we  loved  and  honored,  nought 
Save  power  remains,  — 

A  fallen  angel's  pride  of  thought, 
Still  strong  in  chains. 

All  else  is  gone ;  from  those  great  eyes 

The  soul  has  fled  : 
When  faith  is  lost,  when  honor  dies, 

The  man  is  dead  ! 


THE  LOST  LEADER.  515 

Then  pay  the  reverence  of  old  days 

To  his  dead  fame ; 
Walk  backward,  with  averted  gaze, 

And  hide  the  shame  ! 

WHITTIEB. 


THE   LOST   LEADER 

JUST  for  a  handful  of  silver  he  left  us, 

Just  for  a  ribbon  to  stick  in  his  coat ; 
Found  the  one  gift  of  which  Fortune  bereft  us, 

Lost  all  the  others  she  lets  us  devote. 
They,  with  the  gold  to  give,  doled  him  out  silver, 

So  much  was  theirs  who  so  little  allowed. 
How  all  our  copper  had  gone  for  his  service ! 

Rags,  —  were  they  purple,  his  heart  had  been  proud  : 
We  that  had  loved  him  so,  followed  him,  honored  him, 

Lived  in  his  mild  and  magnificent  eye, 
Learned  his  great  language,  caught  his  clear  accents, 

Made  him  our  pattern  to  live  and  to  die ! 
Shakspeare  was  of  us,  Milton  was  for  us, 

Burns,  Shelley,  were  with  us,  —they  watch  from  their  graves ! 
He  alone  breaks  from  the  van  and  the  freemen ; 

He  alone  sinks  to  the  rear  and  the  slaves ! 

We  shall  march  prospering,  —  not  through  his  presence  ; 

Songs  may  inspirit  us,  —  not  from  his  lyre ; 
Deeds  will  be  done,  —  while  he  boasts  his  quiescence, 

Still  bidding  crouch  whom  the  rest  bade  aspire. 
Blot  out  his  name,  then,  —  record  one  lost  soul  more, 

One  task  more  declined,  one  more  footpath  untrod, 
One  more  triumph  for  devils,  and  sorrow  for  angels, 

One  wrong  more  to  man,  one  more  insult  to  God ! 


516  OLD   IRONSIDES. 

Life's  night  begins ;  let  him  never  coine  back  to  us  ! 

There  would  be  doubt,  hesitation,  and  pain, 
Forced  praise  on  our  part,  —  the  glimmer  of,  twilight, 

Never  glad,  confident  morning  again  ! 
B.est  fight  on  well,  for  we  taught  him,  — strike  gallantly, 

Aim  at  our  heart  ere  we  pierce  through  his  own  ; 
Then  let  him  receive  the  new  knowledge  and  wait  us, 

Pardoned  in  heaven,  the  first  by  the  throne  ! 

BROWNING. 

I  don't  see  why  pardoned  in  heaven.     Repeated  by  K.  S. 


OLD   IEONSIDES. 

AY,  tear  her  tattered  ensign  down  ! 

Long  has  it  waved  on  high, 
And  many  an  eye  has  danced  to  see 

That  banner  in  the  sky ; 
Beneath  it  rung  the  battle-shout, 

And  burst  the  cannon's  roar : 
The  meteor  of  the  ocean  air 

Shall  sweep  the  clouds  no  more. 

Her  deck,  once  red  with  heroes'  blood, 

Where  knelt  the  vanquished  foe, 
When  winds  were  hurrying  o'er  the  flood, 

And  waves  were  white  below, 
No  more  shall  feel  the  victor's  tread, 

Or  know  the  conquered  knee  : 
The  harpies  of  the  shore  shall  pluck 

The  eagle  of  the  sea  ! 


NEVER   OR   NOW.  517 

Oh,  better  that  her  shattered  hulk 

Should  sink  beneath  the  wave ! 
Her  thunders  shook  the  mighty  deep, 

And  there  should  be  her  grave. 
Nail  to  the  mast  her  holy  flag, 

Set  every  threadbare  sail, 
And  give  her  to  the  god  of  storms, 

The  lightning,  and  the  gale  ! 

HOLMES. 

Let  the  children  not  forget  that  this  poem  saved  the  old  frigate  "Constitu- 
tion "  from  being  broken  up. 


NEVER   OE  NOW. 

IN  vain  the  common  theme  my  tongue  would  shun, 

All  tongues,  all  thoughts,  all  hearts,  can  find  but  one. 

Our  alcoves,  where  the  noisy  world  was  dumb, 

Throb  with  dull  drum-beats,  and  the  echoes  come 

Laden  with  sounds  of  battle  and  wild  cries, 

That  mingle  their  discordant  symphonies. 

Old  books  from  yonder  shelves  are  whispering,  "  Peace ! 

This  is  the  realm  of  letters,  not  of  strife." 

Old  graves  in  yonder  field  are  saying,  "  Cease ! 

Hie  jacet  ends  the  noisiest  mortal's  life." 

—  Shut  your  old  books  !     What  says  the  telegraph  ? 

We  want  an  Extra,  not  an  epitaph. 

Old  classmates  (Time's  unconscious  almanacs, 

Counting  the  years  we  leave  behind  our  backs, 

And  wearing  them  in  wrinkles  on  the  brow 

Of  friendship  with  his  kind  "  How  are  you  now  ?  ") 

Take  us  by  the  hand,  and  speak  of  times  that  were.  — 

Then  conies  a  moment's  pause :  "  Pray  tell  me  where 


518  A    LOYAL   WOMAN'S  NO. 

Your  boy  is  now  !     Wounded,  as  I  am  told."  — 
"  Twenty  ?  "     "  What  —  bless  me !  twenty-one  years  old  ! " 
"  Yes,  —  time  moves  fast."     That 's  so.     Old  classmate,  say, 
Do  you  remember  our  Commencement  Day  ? 
Were  we  such  boys  as  these  at  twenty  ? "  Nay, 
God  called  them  to  a  nobler  task  than  ours, 
And  gave  them  holier  thoughts  and  manlier  powers,  — 
This  is  the  day  of  fruits  and  not  of  flowers ! 
These  "  boys  "  we  talk  about  like  ancient  sages 
Are  the  same  men  we  read  of  in  old  pages,  — 
The  bronze  recast  of  dead  heroic  ages  ! 
We  grudge  them  not,  —  our  dearest,  bravest,  best,  — 
Let  but  the  quarrel's  issue  stand  confest : 
.  'T  is  Earth's  old  slave-God  battling  for  his  crown, 


And  Freedom  fighting  with  her  visor  down 


HOLMES. 


A  LOYAL  WOMAN'S   NO. 

No  !  is  my  answer  from  this  cold  bleak  ridge 
Down  to  your  valley :  you  may  rest  you  there ; 

The  gulf  is  wide,  and  none  can  build  a  bridge 
That  your  gross  weight  would  safely  hither  bear. 

Pity  me,  if  you  will.     I  look  at  you 

With  something  that  is  kinder  far  than  scorn, 

And  think,  "  Ah,  well !  "  I  might  have  grovelled  too ; 
I  might  have  walked  there,  fettered  and  forsworn. 

I  am  of  nature  weak  as  others  are  ; 

I  might  have  chosen  comfortable  ways  ; 
Once  from  these  heights  I  shrank,  beheld  afar, 

In  the  soft  lap  of  quiet,  easy  days. 


A   LOYAL  WOMAN'S  NO.  519 

I  might  (I  will  not  hide  it),  —  once  I  might 

Have  lost,  in  the  warm  whirlpools  of  your  voice, 

The  sense  of  evil,  the  stern  cry  of  right ; 
But  truth  has  steered  me  free,  and  I  rejoice : 

Not  with  the  triumph  that  looks  back  to  jeer 
At  the  poor  herd  that  call  their  misery  bliss  ; 

But  as  a  mortal  speaks  when  God  is  near, 
I  drop  you  down  my  answer ;  it  is  this :  — 

I  am  not  yours,  because  you  seek  in  me 

What  is  the  lowest  in  my  own  esteem : 
Only  my  flowery  levels  can  you  see, 

Nor  of  my  heaven-smit  summits  do  you  dream. 

I  am  not  yours,  because  you  love  yourself : 
Your  heart  has  scarcely  room  for  me  beside. 

I  could  not  be  shut  in  with  name  and  pelf ; 
I  spurn  the  shelter  of  your  narrow  pride ! 

Not  yours,  because  you  are  not  man  enough 
To  grasp  your  country's  measure  of  a  man ! 

If  such  as  you,  when  Freedom's  ways  are  rough, 
Cannot  walk  in  them,  learn  that  women  can  ! 

Not  yours,  because,  in  this  the  nation's  need, 
You  stoop  to  bend  her  losses  to  your  gain, 

And  do  not  feel  the  meanness  of  your  deed ; 
I  touch  no  palm  defiled  with  such  a  stain  ! 

Whether  man's  thought  can  find  too  lofty  steeps 
For  woman's  scaling,  care  not  I  to  know ;  • 

But  when  he  falters  by  her  side,  or  creeps, 
She  must  not  clog  her  soul  with  him  to  go. 


520  A   LOYAL   WOMAN'S  NO. 

Who  weds  me  must  at  least  with  equal  pace 
Sometimes  move  with  me  at  my  being's  height : 

To  follow  him  to  his  more  glorious  place, . 
His  purer  atmosphere,  were  keen  delight. 

You  lure  me  to  the  valley  :  men  should  call 
Up  to  the  mountains,  where  the  air  is  clear. 

Win  me  and  help  me  climbing,  if  at  all ! 

Beyond  these  peaks  rich  harmonies  I  hear,  — 

The  morning  chant  of  Liberty  and  Law ! 

The  dawn  pours  in,  to  wash  out  Slavery's  blot : 
Fairer  than  aught  the  bright  sun  ever  saw 

Eises  a  nation  without  stain  or  spot. 

The  men  and  women  mated  for  that  time 
Tread  not  the  soothing  mosses  of  the  plain ; 

Their  hands  are  joined  in  sacrifice  sublime ; 
Their  feet  firm  set  in  upward  paths  of  pain. 

Sleep  your  thick  sleep,  and  go  your  drowsy  way  ! 

You  cannot  hear  the  voices  in  the  air ! 
Ignoble  souls  will  shrivel  in  that  day  : 

The  brightness  of  its  coming  can  you  bear  ? 

For  me,  I  do  not  walk  these  hills  alone : 

Heroes  who  poured  their  blood  out  for  the  truth, 

Women  whose  hearts  bled,  martyrs  all  unknown, 
Here  catch  the  sunrise  of  immortal  youth 

On  their  pale  cheeks  and  consecrated  brows ! 
.  It  charms  me  not,  —  your  call  to  rest  below  ; 
I  press  their  hands,  my  lips  pronounce  their  vows  : 
Take  my  life's  silence  for  your  answer :  Xo. 

LUCY  LARCOM. 
This  recalls  the  gentle,  dignified  writer,  met  at  J.  T.  FIELDS'S. 


THERE  IS  A   LIGHT  CLOUD  BY  THE  MOON.         521 


LIFE. 

WE  '11  shed  no  tear,  we  '11  breathe  no  sigh, 
But  calmly  yield  to  mortal  fate : 

Content  to  live,  content  to  die, 
Nor  woes  depress,  nor  joys  elate. 

In  Naushon's  hall,  we  Ve  tasted  all 
That  earth  could  give  of  social  mirth ; 

Henceforth,  its  pleasures  at  the  call, 
Resigned,  we  render  back  to  earth. 

But  one  fond  wish  we  '11  still  retain, 
Till  life's  poor,  varying  scene  is  o'er, 

That  we  but  part  to  meet  again 

Where  we  shall  meet  to  part  no  more. 

GEORGE  B.  UPTON. 
Autumn  of  1839. 


THERE   IS  A   LIGHT   CLOUD   BY  THE   MOOX. 

"  THERE  is  a  light  cloud  by  the  moon,  — 
'T  is  passing,  and  will  pass  full  soon,  — 
If,  by  the  time  its  vapory  sail 
Hath  ceased  her  shaded  orb  to  veil, 
Thy  heart  within  thee  is  not  changed, 
Then  God  and  man  are  both  avenged: 
Dark  will  thy  doom  be,  darker  still 
Thine  immortality  of  ill." 

Alp  looked  to  heaven,  and  saw  on  high 
The  sign  she  spake  of  in  the  sky ; 


522  THE  DESTRUCTION   OF  SENNACHERIB. 

But  his  heart  was  swollen,  and  turned  aside, 

By  deep,  interminable  pride. 

This  first  false  passion  of  his  breast 

Rolled  like  a  torrent  o'er  the  rest. 

He  sue  for  mercy  !  he  dismayed 

By  wild  words  of  a  timid  maid ! 

He,  wronged  by  Venice,  vow  to  save 

Her  sons,  devoted  to  the  grave ! 

No,  —  though  that  cloud  were  thunder's  worst, 

And  charged  to  crush  him,  let  it  burst ! 

BYKON,  Tlie  Siege  of  Corinth. 


THE   DESTRUCTION   OF   SENNACHERIB. 

THE  Assyrian  came  down  like  the  wolf  on  the  fold, 
And  his  cohorts  were  gleaming  in  purple  and  gold ; 
And  the  sheen  of  their  spears  was  like  stars  on  the  sea, 
When  the  blue  wave  rolls  nightly  on  deep  Galilee. 

Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  summer  is  green, 
That  host  with  their  banners  at  sunset  were  seen  ; 
Like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  when  autumn  hath  blown, 
That  host  on  the  morrow  lay  withered  and  strewn. 

For  the  angel  of  death  spread  his  wings  on  the  blast, 
And  breathed  in  the  face  of  the  foe  as  he  passed ; 
And  the  eyes  of  the  sleepers  waxed  deadly  and  chill, 
And  their  hearts  but  once  heaved,  and  forever  grew  still. 

And  there  lay  the  steed  with  his  nostril  all  wide, 
But  through  it  there  rolled  not  the  breath  of  his  pride ; 
And  the  foam  of  his  gasping  lay  white  on  the  turf, 
And  cold  as  the  spray  of  the  rock-beating  surf. 


ODE.  523 

And  there  lay  the  rider,  distorted  and  pale, 
With  the  dew  on  his  brow  and  the  rust  on  his  mail ; 
And  the  tents  were  all  silent,  the  banners  alone, 
The  lances  unlifted,  the  trumpet  unblown : 

And  the  widows  of  Ashur  are  loud  in  their  wail, 
And  the  idols  are  broke  in  the  temple  of  Baal ; 
And  the  might  of  the  Gentile,  unsmote  by  the  sword, 
Hath  melted  like  snow  in  the  glance  of  the  Lord.     • 

BYKON. 


ODE 

SUNG  ON  THE  OCCASION  OF   DECORATING  THE   GRAVES  OP  THE   CON- 
FEDERATE DEAD,  AT  MAGNOLIA  CEMETERY,  CHARLESTON,  8.   C. 

SLEEP  sweetly  in  your  humble  graves,  — 

Sleep,  martyrs  of  a  fallen  cause ! 
Though  yet  no  marble  column  craves 

The  pilgrim  here  to  pause. 

In  seeds  of  laurel  in  the  earth 

The  blossom  of  your  fame  is  blown, 

And  somewhere,  waiting  for  its  birth, 
The  shaft  is  in  the  stone ! 

Meanwhile,  behalf  the  tardy  years 

Which  keep  in  trust  your  storied  tombs, 

Behold !  your  sisters  bring  their  tears, 
And  these  memorial  blooms. 

Small  tributes  !  but  your  shades  will  smile 
More  proudly  on  these  wreaths  to-day, 

Than  when  some  cannon-moulded  pile 
Shall  overlook  this  bay. 


524  /  AM  A   FRIAR   OF  ORDERS   GRAY. 

Stoop,  angels,  hither  from  the  skies  ! 

There  is  no  holier  spot  of  ground 
Than  where  defeated  valor  lies, 

By  mourning  beauty  crowned ! 

HENRY  TIMROD. 


I  AM   A  FBIAR   OF   ORDERS   GRAY. 

I  AM  a  friar  of  orders  gray, 
And  down  in  the  valleys  I  take  my  way ; 
I  pull  not  blackberry,  haw,  or  hip  — 
Good  store  of  venison  fills  my  scrip  ; 
My  long  bead-roll  I  merrily  chant ; 
Where'er  I  walk  no  money  I  want ; 
And  why  I  'm  so  plump  the  reason  I  tell  — 
Who  leads  a  good  life  is  sure  to  live  welL 

What  baron  or  squire, 

Or  knight  of  the  shire, 
Lives  half  so  well  as  a  holy  friar  ? 

After  supper,  of  heaven  I  dream, 

But  that  is  a  pullet  and  clouted  cream  ; 

Myself,  by  denial,  I  mortify  — 

With  a  dainty  bit  of  warden  pie ; 

I  'm  clothed  in  sackcloth  for  my  sin  — 

With  old  sack  wine  I  'm  lined  within ; 

A  chirping  cup  is  my  matin  song, 

And  the  vesper's  bell  is  my  bowl,  —  ding,  dong  ! 

What  baron  or  squire, 

Or  knight  of  the  shire, 
Lives  half  so  well  as  a  holy  friar  ? 

JOHN  O'KEEFE. 


THE  LAKE   OF  THE  DISMAL   SWAMP.  525 

THE   LAKE   OF   THE  DISMAL  SWAMP. 

A   BALLAD   WEITTEN  AT  NORFOLK,   IN  VIRGINIA. 

"  They  tell  of  a  young  man  who  lost  his  mind  upon  the  death  of  a  girl  he  loved, 
and  who,  suddenly  disappearing  from  his  friends,  was  never  afterwards  heard  of. 
As  he  had  frequently  said,  in  his  ravings,  that  the  girl  was  not  dead,  but  gone  to 
the  Dismal  Swamp,  it  is  supposed  he  had  wandered  into  that  dreary  wilderness, 
and  died  of  hunger,  or  been  lost  in  some  of  its  dreadful  morasses." —  ANON. 

"  La  Poesie  a  ses  monstres  comme  la  Nature."  —  D'ALEMBERT. 

"  THEY  made  her  a  grave,  too  cold  and  damp 

For  a  soul  so  warm  and  true ; 
And  she's  gone  to  the  Lake  of  the  Dismal  Swamp, 
Where,  all  night  long,  by  a  firefly  lamp, 

She  paddles  her  white  canoe. 

"  And  her  firefly  lamp  I  soon  shall  see, 

And  her  paddle  I  soon  shall  hear ; 
Long  and  loving  our  life  shall  be, 
And  I  '11  hide  the  maid  in  a  cypress-tree, 

When  the  footstep  of  Death  is  near." 

Away  to  the  Dismal  Swamp  he  speeds,  — 

His  path  was  rugged  and  sore, 
Through  tangled  juniper,  beds  of  reeds, 
Through  many  a  fen  where  the  serpent  feeds 

And  man  never  trod  before. 

And  when  on  the  earth  he  sunk  to  sleep, 

If  slumber  his  eyelids  knew, 
He  lay,  where  the  deadly  vine  doth  weep 
Its  venomous  tear,  and  nightly  steep 

The  flesh  with  blistering  dew. 


526  LOCHINVAR. 

And  near  him  the  she-wolf  stirred  the  brake, 
And  the  copper-snake  breathed  in  his  ear, 
Till  he  starting  cried,  from  his  dream  awake, 
"  Oh !  when  shall  I  see  the  dusky  Lake, 
And  the  white  canoe  of  my  dear  ?  " 

He  saw  the  Lake,  and  a  meteor  bright 

Quick  over  its  surface  played  — 
"  Welcome."  he  said,  "  my  dear  one's  light !  " 
And  the  dim  shore  echoed,  for  many  a  night, 

The  name  of  the  death-cold  maid. 

Till  he  hollowed  a  boat  of  the  birchen  bark, 

Which  carried  him  off  from  shore ; 
Far  he  followed  the  meteor  spark, 
The  wind  was  high  and  the  clouds  were  dark, 

And  the  boat  returned  no  more. 

But  oft,  from  the  Indian  hunter's  camp, 

This  lover  and  maid  so  true 
Are  seen,  at  the  hour  of  midnight  damp, 
To  cross  the  Lake  by  a  firefly  lamp, 

And  paddle  their  white  canoe. 

MOORE. 
Sung  by  M.  P.  F. 

LOCHINVAR. 

OH,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west, 
Through  all  the  wide  Border  his  steed  was  the'best ; 
And  save  his  good  broadsword  he  weapon  had  none, 
He  rode  all  unarmed,  and  he  rode  all  alone. 
So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in"  war, 
There  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Lochinvar. 


LOCHINVAR.  527 

He  stayed  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopped  not  for  stone, 

He  swam  the  Eske  river  where  ford  there  was  none ; 

But  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate, 

The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came  late. 

For  a  laggard  in  love,  and  a  dastard  in  war, 

Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar.  - 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  Hall, 

Among  bridesmen,  and  kinsmen,  and  brothers,/and  all ; 

Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on  his  sword 

(For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never  a  word), 

"  Oh,  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in  war, 

Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord  Lochinvar  ? " 

"  I  long  wooed  your  daughter,  my  suit  you  denied ;  — 
Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like  its  tide  — 
And  now  am  I  come,  with  this  lost  love  of  mine, 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of  wine. 
There  are  maidens  in  Scotland  more  lovely  by  far, 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young  Lochinvar." 

The  bride  kissed  the  goblet :  the  knight  took  it  up, 
He  quaffed  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw  down  the  cup. 
She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked  up  to  sigh, 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips  and  a  tear  in  her  eye. 
He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere  her  mother  could  bar,  — 
"  Now  tread  we  a  measure  ! "  said  young  Lochinvar. 

So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face, 

That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did  grace ; 

While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father  did  fume 

And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his  bonnet  and  plume; 

And  the  bride-maidens  whispered,  "'Twere  better  by  far 

To  have  matched 'our  fair  cousin  with  young  Lochinvar." 

One  touch  to  her  hand  and  one  word  in  her  ear,. 

When  they  reached  the  hall  door  and  the  charger  stood  near ; 


528  GLENARA. 

So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  lady  he  swung, 

So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung ! ' 

"  She  is  won  !  we  are  gone,  over  bank,  bush,  and  scaur ; 

They  '11  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow,"  quoth  young  Lochinvar. 

There  was  mounting  'mong  Graemes  of  the  Netherby  clan  ; 

Forsters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they  rode  and  they  ran : 

There  was  racing  and  chasing  on  Cannobie  Lee, 

But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did  they  see. 

So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 

Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochinvar  ? 

SCOTT,  Marmion. 


GLENAKA. 

OH,  heard  ye  yon  pibroch  sound  sad  in  the  gale, 
Where  a  band  cometh  slowly  with  weeping  and  wail  ? 
'T  is  the  Chief  of  Glenara  laments  for  his  dear ; 
And  her  sire  and  her  people,  are  called  to  her  bier. 

Glenara  came  first  with  the  mourners  and  shroud ; 
Her  kinsmen  they  followed,  but  mourned  not  aloud : 
Their  plaids  all  their  bosoms  were  folded  around ; 
They  marched  all  in  silence,  —  they  looked  on  the  ground. 

"  And  tell  me,  I  charge  ye !  ye  clan  of  my  spouse, 
Why  fold  ye  your  mantles,  why  cloud  ye  your  brows  ? " 
So  spake  the  rude  chieftain;  — no  answer  is  made, 
But  each  mantle,  unfolding,  a  dagger  displayed. 

"  I  dreamt  of  my  lady,  I  dreamt  of  her  shroud," 
Cried  a  voice  from  the  kinsmen,  all  wrathful  and  loud; 
"  And  empty  that  shroud  and  that  coffin  did  seem : 
Glenara !  Glenara !  now  read  me  my  dream ! " 


LADY  CLARA    VERE   DE    VERE.  529 

Oh !  pale  grew  the  cheek  of  that  chieftain,  I  ween, 
When  the  shroud  was  unclosed,  and  no  lady  was  seen ; 
When  a  voice  from  the  kinsmen  spoke  louder  in  scorn,  — 
'T  was  the  youth  who  had  loved  the  fair  Ellen  of  Lorn : 

"  I  dreamt  of  my  lady,  I  dreamt  of  her  grief, 
I  dreamt  that  her  lord  was  a  barbarous  chief ; 
On  a  rock  of  the  ocean  fair  Ellen  did  seem : 
Glenara  !  Glenara !  now  read  me  my  dream  !  " 

In  dust  low  the  traitor  has  knelt  to  the  ground, 
And  the  desert  revealed  where  his  lady  was  found ; 
From  a  rock  of  the  ocean  that  beauty  is  borne: 
Now  joy  to  the  House  of  fair  Ellen  of  Lorn ! 

CAMPBELL. 

LADY  CLAEA  VEEE  DE  VEKE. 

LADY  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

%  Of  me  you  shall  not  win  renown ; 
You  thought  to  break  a  country  heart 

For  pastime,  ere  you  went  to  town. 
At  me  you  smiled,  but  unbeguiled 

I  saw  the  snare,  and  I  retired : 
The  daughter  of  a  hundred  Earls, 

You  are  not  one  to  be  desired. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

I  know  you  proud  to  bear  your  name ; 
Your  pride  is  yet  no  mate  for  mine, 

Too  proud  to  care  from  whence  I  came. 
Nor  would  I  break  for  your  sweet  sake 

A  heart  that  dotes  on  truer  charms. 
A  simple  maiden  in  her  flower 

Is  worth  a  hundred  coats-of-arms. 

34 


530  LADY  CLARA    VERB  DE   VERE. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

Some  meeker  pupil  you  must  find, 
For  were  you  queen  of  all  that  is, 

I  could  not  stoop  to  such  a  mind. 
You  sought  to  prove  how  I  could  love, 

And  my  disdain  is  my  reply. 
The  lion  on  your  old  stone  gates 

Is  not  more  cold  to  you  than  I. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

You  put  strange  memories  in  my  head. 
Not  thrice  your  branching  limes  have  blown 

Since  I  beheld  young  Laurence  dead. 
Oh,  your  sweet  eyes,  your  low  replies : 

A  great  enchantress  you  may  be; 
But  there  was  that  across  his  throat 

Which  you  had  hardly  cared  to  see. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

When  thus  he  met  his  mother's  view, 
She  had  the  passions  of  her  kind, 

She  spake  some  certain  truths  of  you. 
Indeed,  I  heard  one  bitter  word 

That  scarce  is  fit  for  you  to  hear ; 
Her  manners  had  not  that  repose 

Which  stamps  the  caste  of  Vere  de  Vere. 

Lady  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

There  stands  a  spectre  in  your  hall ; 
The  guilt  of  blood  is  at  your  door : 

You  changed  a  wholesome  heart  to  gall, 
You  held  your  course  without  remorse, 

To  make  him  trust  his  modest  worth, 
And,  last,  you  fixed  a  vacant  stare, 

And  slew  him  with  your  noble  birth. 


LADY  CLARA    VERB  DE    VERE.  531 

Trust  me,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

From  yon  blue  heavens  above  us  bent 
The  grand  old  gardener  and  his  wife 

Smile  at  the  claims  of  long  descent. 
Howe'er  it  be,  it  seems  to  me, 

'T  is  only  noble  to  be  good. 
Kind  hearts  are  more  than  coronets, 

And  simple  faith  than  Norman  blood. 

I  know  you,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere : 

You  pine  among  your  halls  and  towers  ; 
The  languid  light  of  your  proud  eyes 

Is  wearied  of  the  rolling  hours. 
In  glowing  health,  with  boundless  wealth, 

But  sickening  of  a  vague  disease, 
You  know  so  ill  to  deal  with  time, 

You  needs  must  play  such  pranks  as  these. 

Clara,  Clara  Vere  de  Vere, 

If  Time  be  heavy  on  your  hands, 
Are  there  no  beggars  at  your  gate, 

Nor  any  poor  about  your  lands  ? 
Oh !  teach  the  orphan  boy  to  read, 

Or  teach  the  orphan  girl  to  sew, 
Pray  .Heaven  for  a  human  heart, 

And  let  the  foolish  yeoman  go. 

TENNYSON. 


532  LADY  CLARE. 


LADY   CLAEE. 

LORD  RONALD  courted  Lady  Clare, 
I  trow  they  did  not  part  in  scorn ; 

Lord  Eonald,  her  cousin,  courted  her, 
And  they  will  wed  the  morrow  morn. 

"  He  does  not  love  me  for  my  birth, 
Nor  for  my  lands  so  broad  and  fair ; 

He  loves  me  for  my  own  true  worth, 
And  that  is  well,"  said  Lady  Clare. 

In  there  came  old  Alice  the  nurse, 

Said,  "  Who  was  this  that  went  from  thee  ? " 

"  It  was  my  cousin,"  said  Lady  Clare, 
"  To-morrow  he  weds  with  me." 

"  Oh,  God  be  thanked  ! "  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
"  That  all  comes  round  so  just  and  fair : 

Lord  Ronald  is  heir  of  all  your  lands, 
And  you  are  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

"  Are  ye  out  of  your  mind,  my  nurse,  my  nurse  ? " 
Said  Lady  Clare,  "  that  ye  speak  so  wild  ? " 

"  As  God 's  above,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 
"  I  speak  the  truth :  you  are  my  child.     , 

"  The  old  Earl's  daughter  died  at  my  breast ; 

I  speak  the  truth,  as  I  live  by  bread ! 
I  buried  her  like  my  own  sweet  child, 

And  put  my  child  in  her  stead." 

"  Falsely,  falsely  have  ye  done, 

0  mother,"  she  said,  "  if  this  be  true, 

To  keep  the  best  man  under  the  sun 
So  many  years  from  his  due." 


LADY  CLARE.  533 

"  Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 

"  But  keep  the  secret  for  your  life, 
And  all  you  have  will  be  Lord  Konald's, 

"When  you  are  man  and  wife." 

• 
"  If  I  'm  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 

"  I  will  speak  out,  for  I  dare  not  He. 
Pull  off,  pull  off  the  brooch  of  gold, 

And  fling  the  diamond  necklace  by." 

"  Nay  now,  my  child,"  said  Alice  the  nurse, 

"  But  keep  the  secret  all  ye  can." 
She  said,  "  Not  so ;  but  I  will  know 

If  there  be  any  faith  in  man." 

"  Nay  now,  what  faith  ? "  said  Alice  the  nurse 

"  The  man  will  cleave  unto  his  right." 
"  And  he  shall  have  it,"  the  lady  replied, 

"  Though  I  should  die  to-night." 

"  Yet  give  one  kiss  to  your  mother  dear ! 

Alas,  my  child,  I  sinned  for  thee." 
"  0  mother,  mother,  mother,"  she  said, 

"  So  strange  it  seems  to  me. 

"  Yet  here 's  a  kiss  for  my  mother  dear, 

My  mother  dear,  if  this  be  so ; 
And  lay  your  hand  upon  my  head, 

And  bless  me,  mother,  ere  I  go." 

She  clad  herself  in  a  russet  gown, 

She  was  no  longer  Lady  Clare ; 
She  went  by  dale,  and  she  went  by  down, 

With  a  single  rose  in  her  hair. 


534  LADY  CLARE. 

A  lily-white  doe  Lord  Eonald  had  brought 

Leapt  up  from  where  she  lay, 
Dropt  her  head  in  the  maiden's  hand, 

And  followed  her  all  the  way. 

Down  stept  Lord  Eonald  from  his  towe'r : 
"  0  Lady  Clare,  you  shame  your  worth  ! 

Why  come  you  drest  like  a  village  maid, 
That  are  the  flower  of  the  earth  ? " 

"  If  I  come  drest  like  a  village  maid, 

I  am  but  as  my  fortunes  are : 
I  am  a  beggar  born,"  she  said, 

"  And  not  the  Lady  Clare." 

"  Play  me  no  tricks,"  said  Lord  Eonald, 
"  For  I  am  yours  in  word  and  in  deed ; 

Play  me  no  tricks,"  said  Lord  Eonald, 
"  Your  riddle  is  hard  to  read." 

Oh,  and  proudly  stood  she  up ! 

Her  heart  within  her  did  not  fail : 
She  looked  into  Lord  Eonald's  eyes, 

And  told  him  all  her  nurse's  tale. 

He  laughed  a  laugh  of  merry  scorn ; 

He  turned  and  kissed  her  where  she  stood: 
"  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 

And  I,"  said  he,  "  the  next  in  blood,  — 

"  If  you  are  not  the  heiress  born, 
And  I,"  said  he,  "  the  lawful  heir, 

We  two  will  wed  to-morrow  morn, 
And  you  shall  still  be  Lady  Clare." 

TENNYSON. 


ARABY'S  DAUGHTER.  535 


ARABY'S  DAUGHTER. 

FAREWELL,  farewell  to  thee,  Araby's  daughter ! 

(Thus  warbled  a  Peri  beneath  the  dark  sea ;) 
No  pearl  ever  lay  under  Oman's  green  water 

More  pure  in  its  shell  than  thy  spirit  in  thee. 

Oh !  fair  as  the  sea-flower  close  to  thee  growing, 
How  light  was  thy  heart  till  love's  witchery  came, 

Like  the  wind  of  the  south  o'er  a  summer  lute  blowing, 
And  hushed  all  its  music  and  withered  its  frame. 

But  long,  upon  Araby's  green  sunny  highlands, 
Shall  maids  and  their  lovers  remember  the  doom 

Of  her  who  lies  sleeping  among  the  Pearl  Islands, 
With  nought  but  the  sea-star  to  light  up  her  tomb. 

And  still,  when  the  merry  date-season  is  burning, 
And  calls  to  the  palm-groves  the  young  and  the  old, 

Ths  happiest  there,  from  their  pastime  returning, 
At  sunset,  will  weep  when  thy  story  is  told. 

The  young  village  maid,  when  with  flowers  she  dresses 
Her  dark  flowing  hair  for  some  festival  day, 

Will  think  of  thy  fate  till,  neglecting  her  tresses, 
She  mournfully  turns  from  the  mirror  away. 

Nor  shall  Iran,  beloved  of  her  hero,  forget  thee  ; 

Though  tyrants  watch  over  her  tears  as  they  start ; 
Close,  close  by  the  side  of  that  hero  she  '11  set  thee, 

Embalmed  in  the  innermost  shrine  of  her  heart. 

Farewell !  be  it  ours  to  embellish  thy  pillow 

With  everything  beauteous  that  grows  in  the  deep, 

Each  flower  of  the  rock  and  each  gem  of  the  billow 
Shall  sweeten  thy  bed  and  illumine  thy  sleep. 


536  OFT  IN   THE   STILLY  NIGHT. 

Around  thee  shall  glisten  the  loveliest  amber 
That  ever  the  sorrowing  sea-bird  has  wept ; 

With  many  a  shell,  in  whose  hollow- wreathed  chamber 
We,  Peris  of  Ocean,  by  moonlight  have  slept. 

We  '11  dive  where  the  gardens  of  coral  lie  darkling, 
And  plant  all  the  rosiest  sterns  at  thy  head ; 

We  '11  seek  where  the  sands  of  the  Caspian  are  sparkling, 
And  gather  their  gold  to  strew  over  thy  bed. 

Farewell!  farewell!  until  pity's  sweet  fountain 
Is  lost  in  the  hearts  of  the  fair  and  the  brave, 

They  '11  weep  for  the  chieftain  who  died  on  that  mountain, 
They  '11  weep  for  the  maiden  who  sleeps  in  this  wave. 

MOORE,  TJie  Fire-  Worshippers. 
First  heard  sung  by  P.  A.,  Jr.,  in  China. 


OFT  IN   THE   STILLY   NIGHT. 

OFT  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Fond  memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me : 
The  smiles,  the  tears, 
Of  boyhood's  years ; 
The  words  of  love  then  spoken  ; 
The  eyes  that  shone, 
Now  dimmed  and  gone  ; 
The  cheerful  hearts  now  broken. 
Thus  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  memory  brings  the  light 
Of  other  days  around  me. 


A    CANADIAN  BOAT-SONG.  537 

When  I  remember  all 

The  friends,  so  linked  together, 
I  've  seen  around  me  fall, 

Like  leaves  in  wintry  weather, 
I  feel  like  one 
Who  treads  alone 
Some  banquet  hall  deserted, 
Whose  lights  are  fled, 
Whose  garlands  dead, 
And  all  but  he  departed. 
Thus  in  the  stilly  night, 

Ere  slumber's  chain  has  bound  me, 
Sad  memory  brings  the  light 

Of  other  days  around  me. 

MOORE. 


A  CANADIAN   BOAT-SONG. 

WRITTEN   ON   THE   RIVER   ST.   LAWRENCE. 
"  Et  remigem  cantus  hortatur."  —  QUINTILIAN. 

FAINTLY  as  tolls  the  evening  chime, 

Our  voices  keep  tune,  and  our  oars  keep  time. 

Soon  as  the  woods  on  shore  look  dim, 

We  '11  sing  at  St.  Ann's  our  parting  hymn. 

Eow,  brothers,  row !  the  stream  runs  fast, 

The  rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight 's  past ! 

Why  should  we  yet  our  sail  unfurl  ? 
There  is  not  a  breath  the  blue  wave  to  curl. 
But  when  the  wind  blows  off  the  shore, 
Oh,  sweetly  we  '11  rest  our  weary  oar  ! 
Blow,  breezes,  blow !  the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight 's  past ! 


538  A    SEA   DIRGE. 

Utawa's  tide  !  this  trembling  moon 
Shall  see  us  float  over  thy  surges  soon. 
Saint  of  this  green  isle  !  hear  our  prayers ; 
Oh,  grant  us  cool  heavens  and  favoring  airs  ! 
Blow,  breezes,  blow !  the  stream  runs  fast, 
The  rapids  are  near,  and  the  daylight 's  past ! 

MOORE. 
Sung  by  M.  P.  F. 


AEIEL'S   SONG. 

WHERE  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I : 

In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie ; 

There  I  couch  when  owls  do  cry. 

On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 

After  summer,  merrily. 

Merrily,  merrily,  shall  I  live  now, 

Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough. 

SHAKSPEARE,  The  Tempest. 


A   SEA  DIEGE. 

FULL  fathom  five  thy  father  lies; 

Of  his  bones  are  coral  made ; 

Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes : 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade, 

But  doth  suffer  a  sea  change 

Into  something  rich  and  strange. 

Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell : 

Hark !  now  I  hear  them,  — Ding,  dong,  bell. 

SHAKSPEAEE,  Tlie  Tempest. 


JOHN  ANDERSON.  539 


THE    HAEP   THAT   ONCE   THEOUGH   TARA'S  HALLS. 

THE  harp  that  once  through  Tara's  halls 

The  soul  of  music  shed,  , 
Now  hangs  as  mute  on  Tara's  walls 

As  if  that  soul  were  fled. 
So  sleeps  the  pride  of  former  days, 

So  glory's  thrill  is  o'er ; 
And  hearts  that  once  beat  high  for  praise 

Now  feel  that  pulse  no  more. 

No  more  to  chiefs  and  ladies  bright 

The  harp  of  Tara  swells  ; 
The  chord  alone  that  breaks  at  night 

Its  tale  of  ruin  tells. 
Thus  Freedom  now  so  seldom  wakes, 

The  only  throb  she  gives 
Is  when  some  heart  indignant  breaks, 

To  show  that  still  she  lives. 

MOORE. 


JOHN   ANDEESON. 

JOHN  ANDERSON  my  jo,  John, 

When  we  were  first  acquent, 
Your  locks  were  like  the  raven, 

Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent ; 
But  now  your  brow  is  bald,  John, 

Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw ; 
But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 

John  Anderson  my  jo ! 


540  SONG. 


John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither ; 
And  mony  a  canty  day,  John, 

We  Ve  had  wi'  ane  anither : 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

But  hand  in  hand  we  '11  go, 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson  my  jo  ! 

BURNS. 


SONG. 

UNDER  the  greenwood  tree 

Who  loves  to  lie  with  me, 

And  turn  his  merry  note 

Unto  the  sweet  bird's  throat, 

Come  hither !  come  hither !  come  hither  ! 

Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

Who  doth  ambition  shun, 

And  loves  to  live  i'  the  sun, 

Seeking  the  food  he  eats, 

And  pleased  with  what  he  gets, 

Come  hither !  come  hither !  come  hither  ! 

Here  shall  he  see 

No  enemy 
But  winter  and  rough  weather. 

SHAKSPEABE,  As  You  Like  it. 


JEAN.  541 


TELL   ME,   WHERE   IS  FANCY  BRED. 

TELL  me,  where  is  fancy  bred, 
Or  in  the  heart,  or  in  the  head  ? 
How  begot,  how  nourished  ? 
Reply,  reply. 

It  is  engendered  in  the  eyes, 
With  gazing  fed ;  and  fancy  dies 
In  the  cradle  where  it  lies. 
Let  us  all  ring  fancy's  knell : 
I  '11  begin  it,  —  Ding-dong,  bell. 
All.  Ding-dong,  bell. 

SHAKSPEA.RE,  Merchant  of  Venice. 


JEAN. 

OF  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw 

I  dearly  like  the  west, 
For  there  the  bonnie  lassie  lives, 

The  lassie  I  lo'e  best ; 
There  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  row, 

And  mony  a  hill  between, 
But  day  and  night  my  fancy's  flight 

Is  ever  wi'  my  Jean. 

I  see  her 'in  the  dewy  flowers, 

I  see  her  sweet  and  fair, 
I  hear  her  in  the  tunefu'  birds, 

I  hear  her  charm  the  air ; 


542  A   RED,    RED  ROSE. 

There 's  not  a  bonnie  flower  that  springs 

By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green, 
There  's  not  a  bonnie  bird  that  sings, 

But  'minds  me  o'  my  Jean. 

Oh,  blaw,  ye  westlin  winds,  blaw  saft 

Amang  the  leafy  trees  ; 
Wi'  gentle  gale,  frae  muir  and  dale, 

Bring  hame  the  laden  bees  ; 
And  bring  the  lassie  back  to  me 

That 's  aye  sae  neat  and  clean  ; 
Ae  blink  o'  her  wad  banish  care, 

Sae  charming  is  my  Jean. 

What  sighs  and  vows  ainang  the  knowes 

Hae  passed  atween  us  twa ! 
How  fain  to  meet,  iiow  wae  to  part 

That  day  she  gaed  awa' ! 
The  Powers  aboon  can  only  ken, 

To  whom  the  heart  is  seen, 
That  nane  can  be  sae  dear  to  me 

As  my  sweet  lovely  Jean  ! 

BURNS. 
W.  M.  H.  :  ROXIE  :  W.  H.  F. 


A  EED,   BED   EOSE. 

AIR:  "  Wishaw's  Favorite." 

OH,  my  luve  's  like  a  red,  red  rose 
That 's  newly  sprung  in  June : 

Oh,  my  luve 's  like  the  melodie 
That 's  sweetly  played  in  tune. 


TAKE,   OH,    TAKE   THOSE  LIPS  AWAY.  543 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonnie  lass, 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I ; 
And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry. 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear, 

And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun : 
I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run. 

And  fare  thee  weel,  my  only  luve ! 

And  fare  thee  weel  awhile. 
And  I  will  come  again,  my  luve, 


Though  it  were  ten  thousand  mile. 


BURNS. 


TAKE,   OH,   TAKE   THOSE   LIPS  AWAY. 

TAKE,  oh,  take  those  lips  away, 

That  so  sweetly  were  forsworn  ; 
And  those  eyes,  the  break  of  day, 

Lights  that  do  mislead  the  morn ; 
But  my  kisses' bring  again, —  * 
Seals  of  love,  though  sealed  in  vain. 

Hide,  oh,  hide  those  hills  of  snow 
Which  thy  frozen  bosom  bears  ; 

On  whose  tops  the  pinks  that  grow 
Are  of  those  that  April  wears. 

But  first  set  my  poor  heart  free, 

Bound  in  those  icy  chains  by  thee. 

BEAUMONT  AND  FLETCHER. 


544  THE  MANLY  HEART. 


TO   CELIA. 

DKINK  to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 

And  I  will  pledge  with  mine ; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup, 

And  1 11  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  my  soul  doth  rise 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine ; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's'  nectar  sup, 

I  would  not  change  for  thine. 

I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honoring  thee, ' 
As  giving  it  a  hope  that  there 

It  would  not  withered  be ; 
But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe, 

And  sent  it  back  to  me  ; 
Since  then  it  grows  and  smells,  I  swear, 

Not  of  itself,  but  thee. 

BEN  JONSON. 


THE  MANLY  HEAET. 

SHALL  I,  wasting  in  despair, 
Die  because  a  woman 's  fair  ? 
Or  my  cheeks  make  pale  with  ccire 
'Cause  another's  rosy  are  ? 
Be  she  fairer  than  the  day, 
Or  the  flowery  meads  in  May,  — 
If  she  be  not  so  to  me, 
What  care  I  how  fair  she  be  ? 


THE  NIGHT-PIECE.  545 

Shall  a  woman's  virtues  move 
Me  to  perish  for  her  love  ? 
Or  her  merit's  value  known 
Make  me  quite  forget  mine  own  ? 
Be  she  with  that  goodness  blest 
Which  may  gain  her  name  of  Best ; 

If  she  seem  not  such  to  me, 

What  care  I  how  good  she  be  ? 

Great  or  good,  or  kind  or  fair, 
I  will  ne'er  the  more  despair ; 
If  she  love  me,  this  believe, 
I  will  die  ere  she  shall  grieve ; 
If  she  slight  me  when  I  woo, 
I  can  scorn  and  let  her  go ; 
For  if  she  be  not  for  me, 

What  care  I  for  whom  she  be  ? 

G.  WITHER. 


THE  NIGHT-PIECE:   TO   JULIA. 

HER  eyes  the  glow-worme  lend  thee, 
The  shooting  stars  attend  thee  ; 

And  the  elves  also, 

Whose  little  eyes  glow, 
Like  the  sparks  of  fire,  befriend  thee. 

No  will-o'-th'-wispe  mislight  thee,     , 
Nor  snake  nor  slow-worme  bite  thee ; 

But  on,  on  thy  way, 

Not  making  a  stay, 
Since  ghost  there's  none  to  affright  thee. 

35 


546  LOVE'S    YOUNG  DREAM. 

Let  not  the  dark  thee  cumber, 
What  though  the  moon  do  slumber  ? 
The  starres  of  the  night 
Will  lend  thee  their  light, 
Like  tapers  cleare,  without  number. 

Then,  Julia,  let  me  wooe  thee, 
Thus,  thus  to  come  unto  me ; 

And  when  I  shall  meet 

Thy  silvery  feet, 
My  soule  I'll  poure  into  thee. 

HERRICK. 


LOVE'S   YOUNG   DREAM. 

OH,  the  days  are  gone  when  Beauty  bright 

My  heart's  chain  wove  ; 

When  my  dream  of  life,  from  morn  till  night, 
Was  love,  still  love. 
New  hope  may  bloom, 
And  days  may  come 
Of  milder,  calmer  beam ; 
But  there 's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life 
As  love's  young  dream  : 

No,  there 's  nothing  half  so  sweet  in  life 

As  love's  young  dream. 
Though  the  bard  to  purer  fame  may  soar, 

When  wild  youth  's  past ; 
Though  he  win  the  wise,  who  frowned  before, 
To  smile  at  last,  — 
He  '11  never  meet 
A  joy  so  sweet, 


BONNIE  DUNDEE.  547 

In  all  his  noon  of  fame, 
As  when  first  he  sung  to  woman's  ear 

His  soul-felt  flame, 
And  at  every  close  she  blushed  to  hear 

The  one  loved  name. 

No !  that  hallowed  form  is  ne'er  forgot 

Which  first  love  traced; 
Still  it  lingering  haunts  the  greenest  spot 

On  memory's  waste. 
'T  was  odor  fled 
As  soon  as  shed ; 

'T  was  morning's  winged  dream  ; 
'T  was  a  light  that  ne'er  can  shine  again 

On  life's  dull  stream  : 
Oh  !  't  was  light  that  ne'er  can  shine  again 

On  life's  dull  stream. 

MOORE. 


BONNIE  DUNDEE. 

To  the  Lords  of  Convention  't  was  Claverhonse  who  spoke, 
"  Ere  the  king's  crown  shall  fall  there  are  crowns  to  be  broke  ; 
So  let  each  cavalier  who  loves  honor  and  me, 
Come  follow  the  bonnets  of  bonnie  Dundee  !  " 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my  can ; 

Come  saddle  your  horses  and  call  up  your  men  ; 

Come  open  the  westport  and  let  us  gang  free, 

And  it 's  room  for  the  bonnets  of  bonnie  Dundee  ! 

Dundee  he  is  mounted,  he  rides  up  the  street, 

The  bells  are  rung  backward,  the  drums  they  are  beat ; 


548  THE  BRIDAL   OF  ANDALLA. 

But  the  provost,  douce  man,  said,  "Just  e'en  let  him  be, 
The  gude  town  is  well  quit  of  that  de'il  of  Dundee ! " 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  &c. 

These  cowls  of  Kilmarnock  had  spits  and  had  spears, 
And  lang-hafted  gullies  to  kill  cavaliers ; 
But  they  shrunk  to  close-heads,  and  the  causeway  was  free 
At  the  toss  of  the  bonnet  of  bonnie  Dundee. 
Come  fill  up  my  cup,  &c. 

He  waved  his  proud  hand,  and  the  trumpets  were  blown, 
The  kettledrums  clashed,  and  the  horsemen  rode  on, 
Till  on  Eavelston's  cliffs  and  on  Cleriniston's  lea 
Died  away  the  wild  war  notes  of  bonnie  Dundee. 

Come  fill  up  my  cup,  come  fill  up  my  can ; 

Come  saddle  the  horses,  and  call  up  the  men ; 

Come  open  your  doors  and  let  me  gae  free, 

For  it 's  up  with  the  bonnets  of  bonnie  Dundee  ! 

SCOTT,  The  Doom  of  Devorgoil. 
W.  H.  F 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  ANDALLA. 

"  EISE  up,  rise  up,  Xarifa  !  lay  the  golden  cushion  down  ; 
Rise  up,  come  to  the  window,  and  gaze  with  all  the  town  ! 
From  gay  guitar  and  violin  the  silver  notes  are  flowhlg, 
And  the  lovely  lute  doth  speak  between  the  trumpet's  lordly 

blowing, 

And  banners  bright  from  lattice  light  are  waving  everywhere, 
And  the  tall,  tall  plume  of  our  cousin's  bridegroom  floats  proudly 

in  the  air. 

Rise  up,  rise  up,  Xarifa !  lay  the  golden  cushion  down ; 
Rise  up,  come  to  the  window,  and  gaze  with  all  the  town. 


THE  BRIDAL   OF  AND  ALL  A.  549 

"  Arise,  arise,  Xarifa !     I  see  Andalla's  face,  — 
He  bends  him  to  the  people  with  a  calm  and  princely  grace ; 
Through  all  the  land  of  Xeres  and  banks  of  Guadalquivir 
Eode  forth  bridegroom  so  brave  as  he,  so  brave  and  lovely,  never. 
Yon  tall  plume  waving  o'er  his  brow,  of  purple  mixed  with 

white, 

I  guess  't  was  wreathed  by  Zara,  whom  he  will  wed  to-night. 
Rise  up,  rise  up,  Xarifa  !  lay  the  golden  cushion  down  ; 
Rise  up,  come  to  the  window,  and  gaze  with  all  the  town. 

"  What  aileth  thee,  Xarifa,  —  what  makes  thine  eyes  look  down  ? 
Why  stay  ye  from  the  window  far,  nor  gaze  with  all  the  town  ? 
I  Ve  heard  you  say  on  many  a  day,  and  sure  you  said  the  truth, 
Andalla  rides  without  a  peer  among  all  Granada's  youth  ; 
Without  a  peer  he  rideth,  and  yon  milk-white  horse  doth  go 
Beneath  his  stately  master,  with  a  stately  step  and  slow  :  — 
Then  rise  —  oh,  rise,  Xarifa  !  lay  the  golden  cushion  down  ; 
Unseen  here  through  the  lattice,  you  may  gaze  with  all  the  town." 

The  Zegri  lady  rose  not,  nor  laid  her  cushion  down, 

Nor  came  she  to  the  window  to  gaze  with  all  the  town ; 

But  though  her  eyes  dwelt  on  her  knee,  in  vain  her  fingers 

strove, 

And  though  her  needle  pressed  the  silk,  no  flower  Xarifa  wove  ; 
One  bonny  rosebud  she  had  traced  before  the  noise  drew  nigh, 
That  bonny  bud  a.  tear  effaced,  slow  drooping  from  her  eye  — 
"  No  no  !  "  she  sighs,  "bid  me  not  rise,  nor  lay  my  cushion  down, 
To  gaze  upon  Andalla  with  all  the  gazing  town." 

"  Why  rise  ye  not,  Xarifa,  nor  lay  your  cushion  down,  — 
Why  gaze  ye  not,  Xarifa,  with  all  the  gazing  town  ? 
Hear,  hear  the  trumpet  how  it  swells,  and  how  the  people  cry : 
He  stops  at  Zara's  palace  gate,  — why  sit  ye  still,  —  oh,  why  ? " 


550  CORONACH. 

"At  Zara's  gate  stops  Zara's  mate ;  in  him  shall  I  discover 

The  dark-eyed  youth  pledged  me  his  truth  with  tears,  and  was, 

my  lover ! 

I  will  not  rise  with  weary  eyes,  nor  lay  my  cushion  down, 
To  gaze  on  false  Andalla  with  all  the  gazing  town." 

LOCKHART. 

My  beautiful  thoroughbred  "Xarifa,"  which  came  to  an  unhappy  end  by  a 
nail,  was  named  after  the  heroine  of  this  poem. 


COEONACH. 

HE  is  gone  on  the  mountain, 

He  is  lost  to  the  forest, 
Like  a  summer-dried  fountain, 

When  our  need  was  the  sorest. 
The  font,  reappearing, 

From  the  rain-drops  shall  borrow, 
But  to  us  comes  no  cheering, 

To  Duncan  no  morrow  ! 

The  hand  of  the  reaper 

Takes  the  ears  that  are  hoary, 
But  the  voice  of  the  weeper 

Wails  manhood  in  glory. 
The  autumn  winds  rushing 

Waft  the  leaves  that  are  searest; 
But  our  flower  was  in  flushing 

When  blighting  was  nearest. 

Fleet  foot  on  the  correi, 

Sage  counsel  in  cumber, 
Eed  hand  in  the  foray, 

How  sound  is  thy  slumber! 


J.  A. 


SONG.  551 

Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain, 

Like  the  foam  on  the  river, 
Like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain, 

Thou  art  gone,  and  forever  ! 

SCOTT,  Lady  of  the  Lake. 


HOW   SLEEP   THE   BEAVE. 

How  sleep  the  brave  who  sink  to  rest 
By  all  their  country's  wishes  blest ! 
When  Spring,  with  dewy  fingers  cold, 
Returns  to  deck  their  hallowed  mould, 
She  there  shall  dress  a  sweeter  sod 
Than  Fancy's  feet  have  ever  trod. 

By  fairy  hands  their  knell  is  rung, 
By  forms  unseen  their  dirge  is  sung : 
There  Honor  comes,  a  pilgrim  gray, 
To  bless  the  turf  that  wraps  their  clay, 
And  Freedom  shall  awhile  repair, 
To  dwell  a  weeping  hermit  there. 

WILLIAM  COLLINS. 


SONG. 

FEAR  no  more  the  heat  o'  the  sun, 
Nor  the  furious  winter's  rages  ! 

Thou  thy  worldly  task  hast  done, 
Home  art  gone  and  ta'en  thy  wages : 

Golden  lads  and  girls  all  must, 

As  chimney-sweepers,  come  to  dust. 


552         ON   THE  LOSS   OF   THE   "ROYAL    GEORGE." 

Fear  no  more  the  frown  o'  the  great, 
Thou  art  past  the  tyrant's  stroke : 

Care  no  more  to  clothe  and  eat ; 

To  thee  the  reed  is  as  the  oak : 
*  The  sceptre,  learning,  physic,  must 

All  follow  this  and  come  to  dust. 

Fear  no  more  the  lightning-flash, 

Nor  the  all-dreaded  thunder  stone  ; 

i 

Fear  not  slander,  censure  rash  : 

Thou  hast  finished  joy  and  moan : 
All  lovers  young,  all  lovers  must 
Consign  to  thee,  and  come  to  dust. 

No  exerciser  harm  thee ! 
Nor  no  witchcraft  charm  thee  ! 
Ghost  unlaid  forbear  thee  ! 
Nothing  ill  come  near  thee  ! 
Quiet  consummation  have : 
And  renowned  be  thy  grave  ! 

SHAKSPEARE,  Cymbeline. 


ON   THE   LOSS   OF   THE   "EOYAL   GEOKGE." 

WRITTEN   WHEN   THE   NEWS    ARRIVED. 

TOLL  for  the  brave,  — 

The  brave  that  are  no  more  ! 

All  sunk  beneath  the  wave, 
Fast  by  their  native  shore ! 

Eight  hundred  of  the  brave, 
^  Whose  courage  well  was  tried, 

Had  made  the  vessel  heel, 
And  laid  her  on  her  side. 


ON   THE  LOSS   OF   THE   "ROYAL   GEORGE."         553 

A  land-breeze  shook  the  shrouds, 

And  she  was  overset,  — 
Down  went  the  "  Koyal  George," 

With  all  her  crew  complete. 

Toll  for  the  brave ! 

Brave  Kenipenfelt  is  gone  ; 
His  last  sea-fight  is  fought, 

His  work  of  glory  done. 

It  was  not  in  the  battle ; 

No  tempest  gave  the  shock ; 
She  sprang  no  fatal  leak ; 

She  ran  upon  no  rock. 

His  sword  was  in  its  sheath, 

His  fingers  held  the  pen, 
When  Kenipenfelt  went  down, 

With  twice,  four  hundred  men. 

Weigh  the  vessel  up, 

Once  dreaded  by  our  foes  ! 
And  mingle  with  our  cup 

The  tear  that  England  owes. 

Her  timbers  yet  are  sound,1 

And  she  may  float  again, 
Full  charged  with  England's  thunder, 

And  plough  the  distant  main. 

But  Kenipenfelt  is  gone,  — 

His  victories  are  o'er ; 
And  he  and  his  eight  hundred 
Shall  plough  the  waves  no  more. 

COWPER. 
Can  the  new  history  be  true,  that  the  ship  died  of  red  tape  and  neglect  ? 


554  BURIAL   OF  SIR  JOHN  MOORE. 


BUKIAL   OF   Sill  JOHN  MOORE. 

NOT  a  drum  was  heard,  nor  a  funeral  note, 
As  his  corse  to  the  rarnpart  we  hurried  ; 

Not  a  soldier  discharged  his  farewell  shot 
O'er  the  grave  where  our  hero  we  buried. 

We  buried  him  darkly  at  dead  of  night, 

The  sod  with  our  bayonets  turning ; 
By  the  struggling  moonbeams'  misty  light, 

And  the  lantern  dimly  burning^ 

No  useless  coffin  enclosed  his  breast, 

Nor  in  sheet  nor  in  shroud  we  bound  him ; 

But  he  lay  like  a  warrior  taking  his  rest, 
With  his  martial  cloak  around  him. 

Few  and  short  were  the  prayers  we  said, 

And  we  spoke  not  a  word  of  sorrow  ; 
But  we  steadfastly  gazed  on  the  face  of  the  dead, 

And  we  bitterly  thought  of  the  morrow. 

We  thought,  as  we  hollowed  his  narrow  bed, 

And  smoothed  down  his  lonely  pillow, 
That  the  foe  and  the  stranger  would  tread  o'er  his  head, 

And  we  far  away  on  the  billow ! 

Lightly  they  '11  talk  of  the  spirit  that 's  gone, 

And  o'er  his  cold  ashes  upbraid  him ; 
But  little  he  11  reck  if  they  let  him  sleep  on, 

In  the  grave  where  a  Briton  has  laid  him. 

But  half  of  our  heavy  task  was  done 

When  the  clock  struck  the  hour  for  retiring ; 

And  we  knew  by  the  distant  random  gun 
That  the  foe  was  sullenly  firing, 


CHIQUITA.  555 

Slowly  and  sadly  we  laid  him  down, 

From  the  field  of  his  fame  fresh  and  gory ; 

We  carved  not  a  line,  we  raised  not  a  stone,  — 
But  we  left  him  alone  in  his  glory. 

WOLFE. 


CHIQUITA. 

BEAUTIFUL  !     Sir,  you  may  say  so.     Thar  is  n't  her  match  in 

.     the  county. 

Is  thar,  old  gal,  —  Chiquita,  my  darling,  my  beauty  ? 
Feel  of  that  neck,  sir,  —  thar  's  velvet !     Whoa  !     Steady,  —  ah, 

will  you,  you  vixen  ! 
Whoa  !  I  say.     Jack,  trot  her  out ;  let  the  gentleman  look  at 

her  paces. 

Morgan  !  —  She  ain't  nothin'  else,  and  I  've  got  the  papers  to 

prove  it. 
Sired  by   Chippewa  Chief,  and  twelve  hundred  dollars  won't 

buy  her. 
Briggs  of   Tuolumne  owned   her.      Did   you  know  Briggs  of 

Tuolumne  ?  — 
Busted  hisself  in  White  Pine,  and  blew  out  his  brains  down  in 

'Frisco  ? 

Hed  n't  no  savey  — hed  Briggs.     Thar,  Jack  !  that  '11  do,  —  quit 

that  foolin' ! 
Nothin'  to  what  she  kin  'do,  when  she  's  got  her  work  cut  out 

before  her. 
Hosses   is   bosses,   you    know,   and   likewise,   too,    jockeys    is 

jockeys  ; 
And  't  ain't  ev'ry  man  as  can  ride  as  knows  what  a  boss  has  got 

in  him. 


556  CHIQUITA. 

Know  the  old  ford  on  the  Fork,  that  nearly  got  Flanigan's 

leaders  ? 
Nasty  in  daylight,  you  bet,  and  a  mighty  rough  ford  in  low 

water  ! 
Well,  it  ain't  six  weeks  ago  that  me  and  the  Jedge  and  his 

nevey 
Struck  for  that  ford  in  the  night,  in  the  rain  and  the  water  all 

round  us ; 

Up  to  our  flanks  in  the  gulch,  and  Eattlesnake  Creek  jest  a 

bilin', 

Not  a  plank  left  in  the  dam,  and  nary  a  bridge  on  the  river. 
I  had  the  gray,  and  the  Jedge  had  his  roan,  and  his  nevey, 

Chiquita  ; 
And  after  us  trundled  the  rocks  jest  loosed  from  the  top  of  the 

canon. 


Lickity,  lickity,  switch,  we  came  to  the  ford,  and  Chiquita 
Buckled  right  down  to  her  work,  and  afore  I  could  yell  to  her 

rider, 
Took  water  jest  at  the  ford,  and  there  was  the  Jedge'  and  me 

standing, 
And  twelve  hundred  dollars  of  hoss-flesh  afloat,  and  a  driftin' 

to  thunder  ! 


Would  ye   b'lieve   it  ?    that   night   that  hoss,    that   ar'   filly, 

Chiquita, 
Walked  herself  into  her  stall,  and  stood  there,  all  quiet  and 

dripping  ; 

Clean  as  a  beaver  or  rat,  with  nary  a  buckle  of  harness, 
Jest   as    she   swam   to   the   Fork,  —  that   hoss,  that   ar'  filly, 

Chiquita. 


PLAIN  LANGUAGE  FROM  TRUTHFUL  JAMES.      557 

That 's  what  I  call  a  hoss  !  and  —  What  did  you  say  ?  —  Oh, 

the  nevey  ? 
Drownded,    I    reckon,  —  leastways,    he    never    kern    back    to 

deny  it. 
Ye  see,  the  derned  fool  had  no  seat,  —  ye  could  n't  have  made 

him  a  rider  ; 
And  then,  ye  know,  boys  will   be  boys,  and   bosses,  —  well, 

bosses  is  bosses  ! 

BRET  HARTE. 


PLAIN   LANGUAGE   FROM   TRUTHFUL   JAMES. 

WHICH  I  wish  to  remark  — 

And  my  language  is  plain  — 
That  for  ways  that  are  dark, 

And  for  tricks  that  are  vain, 
The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar  : 

Which  the  same  I  would  rise  to  explain. 

Ah  Sin  was  his  name, 

And  I  shall  not  deny 
In  regard  to  the  same 

What  that  name  might  imply  ; 
But  his  smile  it  was  pensive  and  childlike, 

As  I  frequent  remarked  to  Bill  Nye. 

It  was  August  the  third, 

And  quite  soft  was  the  skies  : 
Which  it  might  be  inferred 

That  Ah  Sin  was  likewise  ; 
Yet  he  played  it  that  day  upon  William 

And  me  in  a  way  I  despise. 


558       PLAIN  LANGUAGE  FROM   TRUTHFUL  JAMES. 

Which  we  had  a  small  game, 

And  Ah  Sin  took  a  hand  : 
It  was  euchre.     The  same 

He  did  not  understand  ; 
But  he  smiled  as  he  sat  by  the  table, 

With  the  smile  that  was  childlike  and  bland. 

Yet  the  cards  they  were  stocked 

In  a  way  that  I  grieve, 
And  my  feelings  were  shocked 

At  the  state  of  Nye's  sleeve ; 
Which  was  stuffed  full  of  aces  and  bowers, 

And  the  same  with  intent  to  deceive. 

But  the  hands  that  were  played 

By  that  heathen  Chinee, 
And  the  points  that  he  made, 

Were  quite  frightful  to  see,  — 
Till  at  last  he  put  down  a  right  bower 

Which  the  same  Nye  had  dealt  unto  me. 

Then  I  looked  up  at  Nye, 

And  he  gazed  upon  me ; 
And  he  rose  with  a  sigh, 

And  said,  "  Can  this  be  ? 
We  are  ruined  by  Chinese  cheap  labor,"  — 

And  he  went  for  that  heathen  Chinee. 

In  the  scene  that  ensued 

I  did  not  take  a  hand ; 
But  the  floor  it  was  strewed, 

Like  the  leaves  on  the  strand, 
With  the  cards  that  Ah  Sin  had  been  hiding, 

In  the  game  he  "  did  not  understand." 


THE  NOBLY  BORN.  559 

In  his  sleeves,  which  were  long, 

He  had  twenty -four  packs  — 
Which  was  coming  it  strong, 

Yet  I  state  but  the  facts ; 
And  we  found  on  his  nails,  which  were  taper, 

What  is  frequent  in  tapers  —  that  's  wax. 

Which  is  why  I  remark  — 

And  my  language  is  plain  — 
That  for  ways  that  are  dark, 

And  for  tricks  that  are  vain, 
The  heathen  Chinee  is  peculiar : 

Which  the  same  I  am  free  to  maintain. 

BRET  HAUTE. 


THE   NOBLY  BOEN. 

WHO  counts  himself  as  nobly  born 

Is  noble  in  despite  of  place, 
And  honors  are  but  brands  to  one 

Who  wears  them  not  with  nature's  grace. 

The  prince  may  sit  with  clown  or  churl, 
Nor  feel  himself  disgraced  thereby ; 

But  he  who  has  but  small  esteem 
Husbands  that  little  carefully. 

Then,  be  thou  peasant,  be  thou  peer, 
Count  it  still  more  thou  art  thine  own ; 

Stand  on  a  larger  heraldry 

Than  that  of  nation  or  of  zone. 

What  though  not  bid  to  knightly  halls  ? 
Those  halls  have  missed  a  courtly  guest ; 


560  HUMAN  LIFE. 

That  mansion  is  not  privileged, 
Which  is  not  open  to  the  best. 

Give  honor  due  when  custom  asks, 
Nor  wrangle  for  this  lesser  claim ; 

It  is  not  to  be  destitute, 

To  have  the  thing  without  the  name. 

Then  dost  thou  come  of  gentle  blood, 
Disgrace  not  thy  good  company ; 

If  lowly  born,  so  bear  thyself 

That  gentle  blood  may  come  of  thee. 

Strive  not  with  pain  to  scale  the  height 
Of  some  fair  garden's  petty  wall, 

But  climb  the  open  mountain  side, 
Whose  summit  rises  over  all. 

E.  S.  H. 


HUMAN   LIFE 

PROSPERO. 

OUR  revels  now  are  ended.     These  our  actors, 
As  I  foretold  you,  were  all  spirits,  and 
Are  melted  into  air,  into  thin  air : 
And,  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  this  vision, 
The  cloud-capped  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself, 
Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve  ; 
And,  like  this  insubstantial  pageant  faded, 
Leave  not  a  rack  behind.     We  are  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  on,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a  sleep. 

SHAKSPEAEE,  The  Tempest. 


THE  BARD.  561 

i 

THE   BAED. 

PINDAKIC   ODE. 

"  EUIN  seize  thee,  ruthless  King ! 

Confusion  on  thy  banners  wait ! 
Though  fanned  by  Conquest's  crimson  wing, 

They  mock  the  air  with  idle  state. 
Helm,  nor  hauberk's  twisted  mail, 
Nor  e'en  thy  virtues,  tyrant,  shall  avail 
To  save  thy  secret  soul  from  nightly  fears, 
From  Cambria's  curse,  from  Cambria's  tears  ! " 
Such  were  the  sounds  that  o'er  the  crested  pride 

-Of  the  first  Edward  scattered  wild  dismay, 
As  down  the  steep  of  Snowdon's  shaggy  side 

He  wound  with  toilsome  inarch  his  long  array. 
Stout  Glo'ster  stood  aghast  in  speechless  trance ; 
"  To  arms  ! "  cried  Mortimer,  and  couched  his  quivering  lance. 

On  a  rock,  whose  haughty  brow 
Frowns  o'er  cold  Con  way's  foaming  flood, 

Robed  in  the  sable  garb  of  woe, 
With  haggard  eyes  the  Poet  stood 
(Loose  his  beard  and  hoary  hair 
Streamed,  like  a  meteor,  to  the  troubled  air), 
And  with  a  master's  hand  and  prophet's  fire, 
Struck  the  deep  sorrows  of  his  lyre. 
"  Hark,  how  each  giant  oak  and  desert-cave 

Sighs  to  the  torrent's  awful  voice  beneath ! 
O'er  thee,  0  King  !  their  hundred  arms  they  wave, 

Revenge  on  thee  in  hoarser  murmurs  breathe  ; 
Vocal  no  more,  since  Cambria's  fatal  day, 
To  high-born  Hoel's  harp,  or  soft  Llewellyn's  lay. 

36 


562  THE  BARD. 

"  Cold  is  Cadwallo's  tongue, 

That  hushed  the  stormy  main : 
Brave  Urien  sleeps  upon  his  craggy  bed : 
Mountains,  ye  mourn  in  vain 

Modred,  whose  magic  song 
Made  huge  Plinlimmon  bow  his  cloud-topt  head. 

On  dreary  Arvon's  shore  they  lie, 
Smeared  with  gore  and  ghastly  pale  : 
Far,  far  aloof  the  affrighted  ravens  sail ; 

The  famished  eagle  screams,  and  passes  by. 
Dear  lost  companions  of  my  tuneful  art, 

Dear  as  the  light  that  visits  these  sad  eyes, 
Dear  as  the  ruddy  drops  that  warm  my  heart, 

Ye  died  amidst  your  dying  country's  cries  — 
No  more  I  weep.     They  do  not  sleep. 

On  yonder  cliffs,  a  grisly  band, 
I  see  them  sit ;  they  linger  yet, 

Avengers  of  their  native  land  : 
With  me  in  dreadful  harmony  they  join, 
And  weave  with  bloody  hands  the  tissue  of  thy  line. 

"  Weave  the  warp,  and  weave  the  woof, 

The  winding-sheet  of  Edward's  race. 
Give  ample  room,  and  verge  enough 

The  characters  of  hell  to  trace. 
Mark  the  year,  and  mark  the  night, 
When  Severn  shall  re-echo  with  affright 
The  shrieks  of  death  through  Berkley's  roof  that  ring, 
Shrieks  of  an  agonizing  king  ! 

She-wolf  of  France,  with  unrelenting  fangs, 
That  tear'st  the  bowels  of  thy  mangled  mate, 

From  thee  be  born,  who  o'er  thy  country  hangs 
The  scourge  of  heaven.     What  terrors  round  him  wait 
Amazement  in  his  van,  with  flight  combined, 
And  Sorrow's  faded  form,  and  Solitude  behind. 


THE  BARD.  563 

"  Mighty  victor,  mighty  lord  ! 

Low  on  his  funeral  couch  he  lies ! 
No  pitying  heart,  no  eye,  afford 

A  tear  to  grace  his  obsequies. 
Is  the  sable  warrior  fled  ? 
Thy  son  is  gone.     He  rests  among  the  dead. 
The  swarm  that  in  thy  noontide  beam  were  born  ? 
Gone  to  salute  the  rising  morn. 
Fair  laughs  the  morn,  and  soft  the  zephyr  blows, 

While  proudly  riding  o'er  the  azure  realm 
In  gallant  trim  the  gilded  vessel  goes, 

Youth  on  the  prow,  and  Pleasure  at  the  helm, 
Regardless  of  the  sweeping  whirlwind's  sway, 
That,  hushed  in  grim  repose,  expects  his  evening  prey. 

"  Fill  high  the  sparkling  bowl, 

The  rich  repast  prepare ; 
Reft  of  a  crown,  he  yet  may  share  the  feast : 
Close  by  the  regal  chair 

Fell  Thirst  and  Famine  scowl 
A  baleful  smile  upon  their  baffled  guest. 
Heard  ye  the  din  of  battle  bray, 

Lance  to  lance,  and  horse  to  horso  ? 

Long  years  of  havoc  urge  their  destined  course, 
And  through  the  kindred  squadrons  mow  their  way. 

Ye  towers  of  Julius,  London's  lasting  shame, 
With  many  a  foul  and  midnight  murder  fed, 

Revere  his  Consort's  faith,  his  father's  fame, 
And  spare  the  meek  usurper's  holy  head. 
Above,  below,  the  rose  of  snow, 

Twined  with  her  blushing  foe,  we  spread : 
The  bristled  boar  in  infant  gore 

Wallows  beneath  the,  thorny  shade. 
Now,  brothers,  bending  o'er  the  accursed  loom, 
Stamp  we  our  vengeance  deep,  and  ratify  his  doom. 


564  THE  BARD. 

"  Edward,  lo !  to  sudden  fate 

(Weave  we  the  woof.     The  thread  is  spun.) 
Half  of  thy  heart  we  consecrate. 

(The  web  is  wove.     The  work  is  done.) 
Stay,  oh,  stay !  nor  thus  forlorn 
Leave  me  unblessed,  unpitied,  here  to  mourn : 
In  yon  bright  track,  that  fires  the  western  skies, 
They  melt ,  they  vanish  from  my  eyes. 
But,  oh,  what  solemn  scenes  on  Snowdon's  height 

Descending  slow  their  glittering  skirts  unroll  ? 
Visions  of  glory,  spare  my  aching  sight ! 

Ye  unborn  ages,  crowd  not  on  my  soul ! 
No  more  our  long-lost  Arthur  we  bewail. 
All  hail,  ye  genuine  kings,  Britannia's  issue,  hail ! 

"  Girt  with  many  a  baron  bold 

Sublime  their  starry  fronts  they  rear ; 

And  gorgeous  dames,  and  statesmen  old 

"  In  bearded  majesty,  appear. 

In  the  midst  a  form  divine ! 

Her  eye  proclaims  her  of  the  Briton  line : 

Her  lion-port,  her  awe-commanding  face, 

Attempered  sweet  to  virgin  grace. 

What  strings  symphonious  tremble  in  the  air, 
What  strains  of  vocal  transport  round  her  play ! 

Hear  from  the  grave,  great  Taliessin,  hear ! 
They  breathe  a  soul  to  animate  thy  clay. 

Bright  Eapture  calls,  and,  soaring  as  she  sings, 

Waves  in  the  eye  of  heaven  her  many-colored  wings. 

"  The  verse  adorn  again 

Fierce  war,  and  faithful  love, 
And  truth  severe  by  fairy  fiction  drest. 

In  buskined  measures  move 


ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  MAD  DOG.     565 

Pale  grief,  and  pleasing  pain, 

With  horror,  tyrant  of  the  throbbing  breast. 

A  voice,  as  of  the  cherub-choir, 

Gales  from  blooming  Eden  bear ; 

And  distant  warblings  lessen  on  my  ear, 
That  lost  in  long  futurity  expire. 
Fond  impious  man,  think'st  thou  yon  sanguine  cloud, 

Eaised  by  thy  breath,  has  quenched  the  orb  of  day  ? 
To-morrow  he  repairs  the  golden  flood, 

And  warms  the  nations  with  redoubled  ray. 
Enough  for  me,  with  joy  I  see 

The  different  doom  our  fates  assign. 
Be  thine  despair  and  sceptred  care, 

To  triumph,  and  to  die,  are  mine." 
He  spoke,  and  headlong  from  the  mountain's  height 
Deep  in  the  roaring  tide  he  plunged  to  endless  night. 

GRAY. 


AN  ELEGY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  A  MAD  DOG. 

GOOD  people  all,  of  every  sort, 

Give  ear  unto  my  song ; 
And  if  you  find  it  wondrous  short,  — 

It  cannot  hold  you  long. 

In  Islington  there  was  a  man, 
Of  whom  the  world  might  say 

That  still  a  godly  race  he  ran,  — 
Whene'er  he  went  to  pray. 

A  kind  and  gentle  heart  he  had, 

To  comfort  friends  and  foes  ; 
The  naked  every  day  he  clad, — 

When  he  put  on  his  clothes. 


566  MY  HEART  'S  IN   THE  HIGHLANDS. 

And  in  that  town  a  dog  was  found, 

As  many  dogs  there  be, 
Both  mongrel,  puppy,  whelp,  and  hound, 

And  curs  of  low  degree. 

This  dog  and  man  at  first  were  friends ; 

But  when  a  pique  began, 
The  dog,  to  gain  his  private  ends, 

Went  mad,  and  bit  the  man. 

Around  from  all  the  neighboring  streets 
The  wondering  neighbors  ran, 

And  swore  the  dog  had  lost  his  wits, 
To  bite  so  good  a  man. 

The  wound  it  seemed  both  sore  and  sad 

To  every  Christian  eye ; 
And  while  they  swore  the  dog  was  mad, 

They  swore  the  man  would  die. 

But  soon  a  wonder  came  to  light, 

That  showed  the  rogues  they  lied; 
The  man  recovered  of  the  bite. 


The  dog  it  was  that  died. 


GOLDSMITH. 


MY  HEAET'S  IN   THE   HIGHLANDS. 

MY  heart 's  in  the  Highlands,  my  heart  is  not  here ; 
My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the  deer ; 
Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe, 
My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands  wherever  I  go. 
Farewell  to  the  Highlands,  farewell  to  the  North, 
The  birthplace  of  valor,  the  country  of  worth ; 


HUNTING-SONG.  567 

Wherever  I  wander,  wherever  I  rove, 
The  hills  of  the  Highlands  forever  I  love. 
Farewell  to  the  mountains  high  covered  with  snow ; 
Farewell  to  the  straths  and  green  valleys  below ; 
Farewell  to  the  forests  and  wild-hanging  woods  ; 
Farewell  to  the  torrents  and  loud-pouring  floods. 
My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands,  nay  heart  is  not  here, 
My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands  a-chasing  the  deer ; 
Chasing  the  wild  deer,  and  following  the  roe, 
My  heart 's  in  the  Highlands,  wherever  I  go. 

BURNS. 
Dr.  JEXNISON  :  bark  "Lintin." 


HUNTING-SONG. 

WAKEN,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 

On  the  mountain  dawns  the  day ; 

All  the  jolly  chase  is  here, 

With  hawk,  and  horse,  and  hunting-spear ! 

Hounds  are  in  their  couples  yelling, 

Hawks  are  whistling,  horns  are  knelling. 

Merrily,  merrily,  mingle  they, 

"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 

The  mist  has  left  the  mountain  gray, 

Springfets  in  the  dawn  are  steaming, 

Diamonds  on  the  brake  are  gleaming, 

And  foresters  have  busy  been 

To  track  the  buck  in  thicket  green  ; 

Now  we  come  to  chant  our  lay, 

"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 


568  ELSPETH'S  BALLAD. 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 
To  the  greenwood  haste  away ; 
We  can  show  you  where  he  lies, 
Fleet  of  foot,  and  tall  of  size  ; 
We  can  show  the. marks  he  made, 
When  'gainst  the  oak  his  antlers  frayed. 
You  shall  see  him  brought  to  bay ; 
"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Louder,  louder  chant  the  lay, 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay  ! 

Tell  them  youth  and  mirth  and  glee 

Eun  a  course  as  well  as  we ; 

Time,  stern  huntsman  !  who  can  balk, 

Stanch  as  hound,  and  fleet  as  hawk  ; 

Think  of  this,  and  rise  with  day, 

Gentle  lords  and  ladies  gay. 

SCOTT. 


ELSPETH'S  BALLAD. 

Now  haud  your  tongue,  baith  wife  and  carle, 

And  listen  great  and  sma', 
And  I  will  sing  of  Glenallan's  Earl 

That  fought  on  the  red  Harlaw. 

The  cronach's  cried  on  Bennachie, 

And  dounv  the  Don  and  a', 
And  hieland  and  lawland  may  mournfu'  be 

For  the  sair  field  of  Harlaw. 

They  saddled  a  hundred  milk-white  steeds, 
They  hae  bridled  a  hundred  black, 


ELSPETH'S  BALLAD.  569 

With  a  chafron  of  steel  on  each  horse's  head, 
Arid  a  good  knight  upon  his  back. 

They  hadna  ridden  a  mile,  a  mile, 

A  mile  but  barely  ten, 
When  Donald  came  branking  down  the  brae 

Wi'  twenty  thousand  men. 

Their  tartans  they  were  waving  wide, 

Their  glaives  were  glancing  clear, 
The  pibrochs  rung  frae  side  to  side, 

Would  deafen  ye  to  hear. 

The  great  Earl  in  his  stirrups  stood, 

That  Highland  host  to  see : 
"  Now  here  a  knight  that 's  stout  and  good 

May  prove  a  jeopardie : 

"  What  wouldst  thou  do,  my  squire  so  gay, 

That  rides  beside  my  rein,  — 
Were  ye  Glenallan's  Earl  the  day, 

And  I  were  Roland  Cheyne  ? 

"  To  turn  the  rein  were  sin  and  shame, 

To  fight  were  wondrous  peril,  — 
What  would  ye  do  now,  Roland  Cheyne, 

Were  ye  Glenallan's  Earl  ?  " 

"  Were  I  Glenallan's  Earl  this  tide, 

And  ye  were  Roland  Cheyne, 
The  spur  should  be  in  my  horse's  side, 

And  the  bridle  upon  his  mane. 


570  LORD    ULLTN'S  DAUGHTER. 

"  If  they  hae  twenty  thousand  blades, 

And  we  twice  ten  times  ten, 
Yet  they  hae  but  their  tartan  plaids, 

And  we  are  mail-clad  men. 

"  My  horse  shall  ride  through  ranks  sae  rude, 

As  through  the  moorland  fern,  — 
Then  ne'er  let  the  gentle  Norman  blude 

Grow  cauld  for  Highland  kerne." 

SCOTT,  The  Antiquary. 


LOED   ULLIN'S   DAUGHTER 

A  CHIEFTAIN  to  the  Highlands  bound, 
Cries,  "  Boatman,  do  not  tarry  ! 

And  I  '11  give  thee  a  silver  pound 
To  row  us  o'er  the  ferry." 

"  Now  who  be  ye,  would  cross  Lochgyle, 
This  dark  and  stormy  water  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  'm  the  chief  of  Ulva's  isle,  ' 
And  this  Lord  Ullin's  daughter. 

"  And  fast  before  her  father's  men 
Three  days  we  've  fled  together ; 

For  should  he  find  us  in  the  glen, 
My  blood  would  stain  the  heather. 

"  His  horsemen  hard  behind  us  ride ; 

Should  they  our  steps  discover, 
Then  who  will  cheer  my  bonny  bride 

When  they  have  slain  her  lover  ? " 


LORD    ULLIN'S  DAUGHTER.  571 

Out  spoke  the  hardy  Highland  wight, 

"  I  '11  go,  my  chief,  —  I  'm  ready : 
It  is  not  for  your  silver  bright, 

But  for  your  winsome  lady  : 

"  And  by  my  word  !  the  bonny  bird 

In  danger  shall  not  tarry  ; 
So  though  the  waves  are  raging  white, 

I  '11  row  you  o'er  the  ferry." 

By  this  the  storm  grew  loud  apace ; 

The  water-wraith  was  shrieking ; 
And  in  the  scowl  of  heaven  each  face 

Grew  dark  as  they  were  speaking. 

But  still,  as  wilder  blew  the  wind, 

And  as  the  night  grew  drearer, 
Adown  the  glen  rode  armed  men, 

Their  trampling  sounded  nearer.       » 

"  Oh,  haste  thee,  haste  !  "  the  lady  cries, 

"  Though  tempests  round  us  gather ; 
I  '11  meet  the  raging  of  the  skias, 

But  not  an  angry  father." 

The  boat  has  left  a  stormy  land, 

A  stormy  sea  before  her  — 
When,  oh !  too  strong  for  human  hand, 

The  tempest  gathered  o'er  her. 

And  still  they  rowed  amidst  the  roar 

Of  waters  fast  prevailing : 
Lord  Ullin  reached  that  fatal  shore ; 

His  wrath  was  changed  to  wailing. 


572  SONG. 

For  sore  dismayed,  through  storm  and  shade, 

His  child  he  did  discover ; 
One  lovely  hand  she  stretched  for  aid, 

And  one  was  round  her  lover. 

"  Come  back !  come  back  !  "  he  cried  in  grief, 

"  Across  this  stormy  water ; 
And  1 11  forgive  your  Highland  chief, 

My  daughter  !  —  O  my  daughter  ! " 

'T  was  vain  ;  —  the  loud  waves  lashed  the  shore, 

Return  or  aid  preventing  : 
The  waters  wild  went  o'er  his  child, 

And  he  was  left  lamenting. 

CAMPBELL. 


SONG. 

"  A  WEARY  lot  is  thine,  fair  maid, 

A  weary  lot  is  thine  ! 
To  pull  the  thorn,  thy  brow  to  braid, 

And  press  the  rue  for  wine  ! 
A  lightsome  eye,  a  soldier's  mien, 

A  feather  of  the  blue, 
A  doublet  of  the  Lincoln  green,  — 

No  more  of  me  you  knew, 

My  love ! 

No  more  of  me  you  knew. 

"This  morn  is  merry  June,  I  trow, 

The  rose  is  budding  fain, 
But  she  shall  bloom  in  whiter  snow, 

Ere  we  two  meet  again." 


CAVALIER  SONG.  573 

He  turned  his  charger,  as  he  spake, 

Upon  the  river  shore, 
He  gave  his  bridle  reins  a  shake, 
Said,  "Adieu  forevermore, 

My  love  ! 
And  adieu  forevermore." 

SCOTT,  Rokeby. 


CAVALIER   SONG. 

WHILE  the  dawn  on  the  mountain  was  misty  and  gray, 
My  true  love  has  mounted  his  steed  and  away, 
Over  hill,  over  valley,  o'er  dale,  and  o'er  down ;  — 
Heaven  shield  the  brave  gallant  that  fights  for  the  Crown  ! 

He  has  doffed  the  silk  doublet,  the  breastplate  to  bear ; 
He  has  placed  the  steel  cap  o'er  his  long  flowing  hair ; 
From  his  belt  to  his  stirrup  his  broadsword  hangs  down  ;  — 
Heaven  shield  'the  brave  gallant  that  fights  for  the  Crown  ! 

For  the  rights  of  fair  England  that  broadsword  he  draws  ; 

Her  King  is  his  leader,  her  Church  is  his  cause ; 

His  watchword  is  honor,  his  pay  is  renown ;  — 

God  strike  with  the  gallant  that  strikes  for  the  Crown  ! 

They  may  boast  of  their  Fairfax,  their  Waller,  and  all 
The  roundheade.d  rebels  of  Westminster  Hall ; 
But  tell  these  bold  traitors  of  London's  proud  town 
That  the  spears  of  the  North  have  encircled  the  Crown  ! 

There  's  Derby  and  Cavendish,  dread  of  their  foes  ; 
There  's  Erin's  high  Ormond  and  Scotland's  Montrose ! 
Would  you  match  the  base  Skippon,  and  Massey,  and  Brown, 
With  the  Barons  of  England,  that  fight  for  the  Crown  ? 


574          GLEE  FOR  KING  CHARLES. 

Now  joy  to  the  crest  of  the  brave  cavalier  ! 

Be  his  banner  unconquered,  resistless  his  spear, 

Till  in  peace  and  in  triumph  his  toils  he  may  drown 

In  a  pledge  to  fair  England,  her  Church,  and  her  Crown  ! 

SCOTT,  Rokeby. 

GLEE  FOR  KING  CHAELES. 

BEING  the  bowl  which  you  boast, 

Fill  it  up  to  the  brim ; 
'T  is  to  him  we  love  most, 

And  to  all  who  love  him. 
Brave  gallants,  stand  up  ! 

And  avaunt,  ye  base  cailes ! 
Were  there  death  in  the  cup, 

Here 's  a  Health  to  King  Charles ! 

Though  he  wanders  through  dangers, 

Unaided,  unknown, 
Dependent  on  strangers, 

Estranged  from  his  own; 
Though  't  is  under  our  breath, 

Amidst  forfeits  and  perils, 
Here 's  to  honor  and  faith, 

And  a  Health  to  King  Charles  ! 

Let  such  honors  abound 

As  the  time  can  afford, 
The  knee  on  the  ground, 

And  the  hand  on  the  sword ; 
But  the  time  shall  come  round 

When,  'mid  lords,  dukes,  and  earls, 
The  loud  trumpet  shall  sound, 

Here 's  a  Health  to  King  Charles  ! 

SCOTT,  Woodstock. 
W.  H.  F. 


LIFE  AND  DEATH.  575 


LOVE   OF   COUNTRY. 

BREATHES  there  the  man  with  soul  so  dead 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 

This  is  my  own,  my  native  land ! 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burned, 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turned 

From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand  ! 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well ! 
For  him  no  minstrel  raptures  swell ; 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name, 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim, 
Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf, 
The  wretch,  concentred  all  in  self, 
Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown, 
And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 
To  the  vile  dust  from  whence  he  sprung, 
Unwept,  unhonored,  and  unsung  ! 

SCOTT,  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel. 


LIFE  AND   DEATH. 

LIFE  !  I  know  not  what  thou  art, 
But  know  that  thou  and  I  must  part ; 
And  when,  or  how,  or  where  we  met, 
I  own  to  me  's  a  secret  yet. 

Life !  we  've  been  long  together* 
Through  pleasant  and  through  cloudy  weather ; 
'T  is  hard  to  part  when  friends  are  dear,  — 
Perhaps  't  will  cost  a  sigh,  a  tear : 


576  THE  INCHCAPE  ROCK. 

Then  steal  away,  give  little  warning, 

Choose  thine  own  time ; 
Say  not  Good  Night,  but  in  some  brighter  clime 

Bid  me  Good  Morning  ! 

ANNA  L^ETITIA  BARBAULU. 
"  Among  the  best. "  —  S.  F. 


THE  INCHCAPE   ROCK. 

No  stir  in  the  air,  no  stir  in  the  sea,  — 
The  ship  was  as  still  as  she  could  be ; 
Her  sails  from  heaven  received  no  motion, 
Her  keel  was  steady  in  the  ocean. 

Without  either  sign  or  sound  of  their  shock, 
The  waves  flowed  over  the  Inchcape  Rock ; 
So  little  they  rose,  so  little  they  fell, 
They  did  not  move  the  Inchcape  bell 

The  good  old  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok 
Had  placed  that  bell  on  the  Inchcape  Rock ; 
On  a  buoy  in  the  storm  it  floated  and  swung, 
And  over  the  waves  its  warning  rung. 

When  the  Rock  was  hid  by  the  surges'  swell, 
The  mariners  heard  the  warning  bell ; 
And  then  they  knew  the  perilous  Rock, 
And  blessed  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok. 

The  sun  in  heaven  was  shining  gay, 

All  things  were  joyful  on  that  day ; 

The  sea-birds  screamed  as  they  wheeled  around, 

And  there  was  joyance  in  their  sound. 


THE  INCHCAPE   ROCK.  577 

The  buoy  of  the  Inchcape  bell  was  seen, 
A  darker  speck  on  the  ocean  green ; 
Sir  Ealph  the  Eover  walked  his  deck, 
And  he  fixed  his  eye  on  the  darker  speck. 

He  felt  the  cheering  power  of  spring,  — 
It  made  him  whistle,  it  made  him  sing ; 
His  heart  was  mirthful  to  excess, 
But  the  Eover's  mirth  was  wickedness. 

His  eye  was  on  the  Inchcape  float ; 
Quoth  he,  "  My  men,  put  out  the  boat, 
And  row  me  to  the  Inchcape  Rock, 
And  I  '11  plague  the  priest  of  Aberbrothok." 

The  boat  is  lowered,  the  boatmen  row, 

And  to  the  Inchcape  Rock  they  go ; 

Sir  Ralph  bent  over  from  the  boat, 

And  he  cut  the  bell  from  the  Inchcape  float. 

Down  sank  the  bell  with  a  gurgling  sound ; 
The  bubbles  rose  and  burst  around. . 
Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "  The  next  who  comes  to  the  Rock 
Won't  bless  the  Abbot  of  Aberbrothok." 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  sailed  away, 
He  scoured  the  seas  for  many  a  day ; 
And  now,  grown  rich  with  plundered  store, 
He  steers  his  course  for  Scotland's  shore. 

So  thick  a  haze  o'erspreads  the  sky 
They  cannot  see  the  sun  on  high ; 
The  wind  hath  blown  a  gale  all  day, 
At  evening  it  hath  died  away. 
37 


578  CLAN-ALPINE  BOAT-SONG. 

On  the  deck  the  Eover  takes  his  stand ; 
So  dark  it  is  they  see  no  land. 
Quoth  Sir  Ralph,  "  It  will  be  lighter  soon, 
For  there  is  the  dawn  of  the  rising  moon." 

"  Canst  hear,"  said  one,  "  the  breakers  roar  ? 
For  methinks  we  should  be  near  the  shore ; 
Now  where  we  are  I  cannot  tell, 
But  I  wish  I  could  hear  the  Inchcape  bell." 

They  hear  no  sound,  the  swell  is  strong ; 
Though  the  wind  hath  fallen,  they  drift  along, 
Till  the  vessel  strikes  with  a  shivering  shock : 
Cried  they,  "  It  is  the  Inchcape  Rock  ! " 

Sir  Ralph  the  Rover  tore  his  hair, 
He  cursed  himself  in  his  despair ; 
The  waves  rush  in  on  every  side, 
The  ship  is  sinking  beneath  the  tide. 

But  even  in  his  dying  fear 

One  dreadful  sound  could  the  Rover  hear,  — 

A  sound  as  if  with  the  Inchcape  bell 

The  fiends  below  were  ringing  his  knell. 

SOUTHEY. 


CLAN-ALPINE  BOAT-SONG. 

HAIL  to  the  Chief  who  in  triumph  advances  ! 

Honored  and  blessed  be  the  ever-green  pine  ! 
Long  may  the  tree,  in  his  banner  that  glances, 
Flourish,  the  shelter  and  grace  of  our  line ! 
Heaven  send  it  happy  dew, 
Earth  lend  it  sap  anew, 


CLAN-ALPINE  BOAT-SONG.  579 

Gayly  to  bourgeon,  and  broadly  to  grow  ; 

While  every  Highland  glen 

Sends  our  shout  back  agen, 
"  Eoderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho !  ieroe  ! " 

Ours  is  no  sapling,  chance-sown  by  the  fountain, 

Blooming  at  Beltane,  in  winter  to  fade  ; 

When  the  whirlwind  has  stripped  every  leaf  on  the  mountain, 
The  more  shall  Clan- Alpine  exult  in  her  shade. 

Moored  in  the  rifted  rock, 

Proof  to  the  tempest's  shock, 
Firmer  he  roots  him  the  ruder  it  blow ; 

Menteith  and  Breadalbane,  then, 

Echo  his  praise  agen, 
"  Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho  !  ieroe  ! " 

Proudly  our  pibroch  has  thrilled  in  Glen  Fruin, 

And  Bannochar's  groans  to  our  slogan  replied ; 
Glen  Luss  and  Ross-dhu,  they  are  smoking  in  ruin, 
And  the  best  of  Loch  Lomond  lie  dead  on  her  side. 
Widow  and  Saxon  maid 
Long  shall  lament  our  raid, 
Think  of  Clan- Alpine  with  fear  and  with  woe ; 
Lennox  and  Leven-gleu 
Shake  when  they  hear  agen, 
"  Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho !  ieroe  ! " 

Row,  vassals,  row,  for  the  pride  of  the  Highlands  ! 

Stretch  to  your  oars,  for  the  ever-green  pine ! 
Oh  that  the  rosebud  that  graces  yon  islands 

Were  wreathed  in  a  garland  around  him  to  twine ! 
Oh  that  some  seedling  gem, 
Worthy  such  noble  stem, 


580  BORDER  BALLAD. 

Honored  and  blessed  in  their  shadow  might  grow ! 

Loud  should  Clan-Alpine  then 

Ring  from  her  deepmost  glen, 
"  Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dim,  ho !  ieroe  !" 

SCOTT,  Lady  of  tlie 


BORDER  BALLAD. 

MAKCH,  march,  Ettrick  and  Teviotdale ! 

Why  the  de'il  dinna  ye  march  forward  in  order  ? 
March,  march,  Eskdale  and  Liddesdale, 

All  the  Blue  Bonnets  are  bound  for  the  Border. 

Many  a  banner  spread, 

Flutters  above  your  head, 
Many  a  crest  that  is  famous  in  story. 

Mount  and  make  ready,  then, 

Sons  of  the  mountain-glen, 
Fight  for  the  Queen  and  our  old  Scottish  glory. 

Come  from  the  hills  where  your  hirsels  are  grazing, 

Come  from  the  glen  of  the  buck  and  the  roe  ; 
Come  to  the  crag  where  the  beacon  is  blazing, 
Come  with  the  buckler,  the  lance,  and  the  bow. 

Trumpets  are  sounding, 

War  steeds  are  bounding  ; 
Stand  to  your  arms  then,  and  march  in  good  order, 

England  shall  many  a  day 

Tell  of  the  bloody  fray, 
W^hen  the  Blue  Bonnets  came  over  the  Border. 

SCOTT,  The  Monastery. 
My  own  nursery  song. 


REBECCA'S  HYMN.  581 


EEBECCA'S  HYMN. 

WHEN  Israel,  of  the  Lord  beloved, 

Out  from  the  land  of  bondage  came, 
Her  fathers'  God  before  her  moved, 

An  awful  guide  in  smoke  and  flame. 
By  day,  along  the  astonished  lands, 

The  cloudy  pillar  glided  slow ; 
By  night,  Arabia's  crimsoned  sands 

Eeturned  the  fiery  column's  glow. 

There  rose  the  choral  hymn  of  praise, 

And  trump  and  timbrel  answered  keen, 
And  Zion's  daughters  poured  their  lays, 

With  priest's  and  warrior's  voice  between. 
No  portents  now  our  foes  amaze, 

Forsaken  Israel  wanders  lone ; 
Our  fathers  would  not  know  Thy  ways, 

Arid  Thou  hast  left  them  to  their  own. 

But  present  still,  though  now  unseen  ! 

When  brightly  shines  the  prosperous  day, 
Be  thoughts  of  Thee  a  cloudy  screen 

To  temper  the  deceitful  ray. 
And  oh,  when  stoops  on  Judah's  path 

In  shade  and  storm  the  frequent  night, 
Be  thou,  long-suffering,  slow  to  wrath, 

A  burning  and  a  shining  light ! 

Our  harps  we  left  by  Babel's  streams, 
The  tyrant's  jest,  the  Gentile's  scorn ;  • 

No  censer  round  our  altar  beams, 

And  mute  are  timbrel,  harp,  and  horn. 


582  SONG   OF  THE  GREEK  POET. 

But  Thou  hast  said,  "  The  blood  of  goat, 
The  flesh  of  ramsK  I  will  not  prize ; 

A  contrite  heart,  a  humble  thought, 
Are  mine  accepted  sacrifice." 

SCOTT,  Ivanhoe. 


SONG   OF   THE   GREEK   POET. 

THE  Isles  of  Greece,  the  Isles  of  Greece ! 

Where  burning  Sappho  loved  and  sung, 
Where  grew  the  arts  of  war  and  peace, 

Where  Delos  rose  and  Pho3bus  sprung ! 
Eternal  summer  gilds  them  yet ; 
But  all,  except  their  sun,  is  set. 

The  Scian  and  the  Teian  muse, 
The  hero's  harp,  the  lover's  lute, 

Have  found  the  fame  your  shores  refuse ; 
Their  place  of  birth  alone  is  mute 

To  sounds  which  echo  further  west 

Than  your  sires'  "Islands  of  the  Blest." 

The  mountains  look  on  Marathon,  — 
And  Marathon  looks  on  the  sea ; 

And  musing  there  an  hour  alone, 

I  dreamed  that  Greece  might  still  be  free  ; 

For  standing  on  the  Persian's  grave, 

I  could  not  deem  myself  a  slave. 

Must  we  but  weep  o'er  days  more  blest  ? 

Must  we  but  blush  ?  —  our  fathers  bled. 
Earth  !  render  back  from  out  thy  breast 

A  remnant  of  our  Spartan  dead ! 


SONG  OF  THE  GREEK  POET.         583 

Of  the  three  hundred  grant  but  three 
To  make  a  new  Thermopylae ! 

What !  silent  still  ?  and  silent  all  ? 

Ah  no !  the  voices  of  the  dead 
Sound  like  a  distant  torrent's  fall, 

And  answer,  "  Let  one  living  head, 
But  one,  arise,  —  we  coine,  we  come ! " 
T  is  but  the  living  who  are  dumb. 

In  vain  —  in  vain  !  strike  other  chords  ; 

Fill  high  the  cup  with  Saniian  wine ! 
Leave  battles  to  the  Turkish  hordes, 

And  shed  the  blood  of  Scio's  vine ! 
Hark  !  rising  to  the  ignoble  call, 
How  answers  each  bold  Bacchanal ! 


Fill  high  the  bowl  with  Samian  wine ! 

Our  virgins  dance  beneath  the  shade; 
I  see  their  glorious  black  eyes  shine ; 

But,  gazing  on  each  glowing  maid, 
My  own  the  burning  tear-drop  laves, 
To  think  such  breasts  must  suckle  slaves. 

Place  me  on  Sunium's  marbled  steep, 
Where  nothing,  save  the  waves  and  I, 

May  hear  our  mutual  murmurs  sweep ; 
There,  swan-like,  let  me  sing  and  die ! 

A  land  of  slaves  shall  ne'er  be  mine,  — 

Dash  down  yon  cup  of  Samian  wine ! 

BYRON,  Don  Juan. 

Rejected  with  scorn  by  those  getting  up  the  Greek  musical  testimonial  as  not 
being  musical. 


584  /  REMEMBER,   I  REMEMBER. 


I   REMEMBER,  I   REMEMBER 

I  KEMEMBEE,  I  remember 

The  house  where  I  was  born, 
The  little  window  where  the  sun 

Came  peeping  in  at  morn ; 
He  never  came  a  wink  too  soon, 

Nor  brought  too  long  a  day ; 
But  now,  I  often  wish  the  night 

Had  borne  my  breath  away. 

I  remember,  I  remember 

The  roses,  red  and  white, 
The  violets  and  the  lily-cups,  — 

Those  flowers  made  of  light ! 
The  lilacs  where  the  robin  built, 

And  where  my  brother  set 
The  laburnum  on  his  birthday,  — 

The  tree  is  living  yet ! 

I  remember,  I  remember 

Where  I  was  used  to  swing, 
And  thought  the  air  must  rush  as  fresh 

To  swallows  on  the  wing ; 
My  spirit  flew  in  feathers  then, 

That  is  so  heavy  now, 
And  summer  pools  could  hardly  cool 

The  fever  on  my  brow. 

I  remember,  I  remember 
The  fir-trees  dark  and  high  ; 

I  used  to  think  their  slender  tops 
Were  close  against  the  sky. 


THE   SKELETON  IN  ARMOR.  585 

It  was  a  childish  ignorance, 

But  now  't  is  little  joy 
To  know  I  'm  farther  off  from  Heaven 

Than  when  I  was  a  boy. 

HOOD. 
Sung  by  Mrs.  LONG. 


THE   SKELETON   IN  AEMOR 

"  SPEAK  !  speak  !  thou  fearful  guest ! 
Who,  with  thy  hollow  breast 
Still  in  rude  armor  drest, 

Comest  to  daunt  me  ! 
Wrapt  not  in  Eastern  balms, 
But  with  thy  fleshless  palms 
Stretched,  as  if  asking  alms, 

Why  dost  thou  haunt  me  ?  " 

Then,  from  those  cavernous  eyes 
Pale  flashes  seemed  to  rise, 
As  when  the  Northern  skies 

Gleam  in  December ; 
And,  like  the  water's  flow 
Under  December's  snow, 
Came  a  dull  voice  of  woe 

From  the  heart's  chamber. 

"  I  was  a  Viking  old  ! 

My  deeds,  though  manifold, 

No  Skald  in  song  has  told, 

No  Saga  taught  thee  ! 
Take  heed,  that  in  thy  verse 
Thou  dost  the  tale  rehearse, 
Else  dread  a  dead  man's  curse ; 

For  this  I  sought  thee. 


586  THE  SKELETON  IN  ARMOR. 

"  Far  in  the  Northern  Land, 
By  the  wild  Baltic's  strand, 
I,  with  my  childish  hand, 

Tamed  the  gerfalcon ; 
And,  with  my  skates  fast-bound, 
Skimmed  the  half-frozen  Sound, 
That  the  poor  whimpering  hound 

Trembled  to  walk  on. 

"  I  wooed  the  blue-eyed  maid, 
Yielding,  yet  half  afraid, 
And  in  the  forest's  shade 

Our  vows  were  plighted. 
Under  its  loosened  vest 
Fluttered  her  little  breast, 
Like  birds  within  their  nest 

By  the  hawk  frighted. 

"  Bright  in  her  father's  hall 
Shields  gleamed  upon  the  wall, 
Loud  sang  the  minstrels  all, 

Chanting  his  glory  ; 
When  of  old  Hildebrand 
I  asked  his  daughter's  hand, 
Mute  did  the  minstrels  stand 

To  hear  my  story. 

"  While  the  brown  ale  he  quaffed, 
Loud  then  the  champion  laughed  ; 
And  as  the  wind-gusts  waft 

The  sea-foam  brightly, 
So  the  loud  laugh  of  scorn, 
Out  of  those  lips  unshorn, 
From  the  deep  drinking-horn 

Blew  the  foam  lightly. 


THE   SKELETON  IN  ARMOR.  587 

"  She  was  a  Prince's  child, 

I  but  a  Viking  wild, 

And  though  she  blushed  and  smiled, 

I  was  discarded  ! 
Should  not  the  dove  so  white 
Follow  the  sea-mew's  flight, 
Why  did  they  leave  that  night 

Her  nest  unguarded  ? 

"  Scarce  had  I  put  to  sea, 
Bearing  the  maid  with  me, 
Fairest  of  all  was  she 

Among  the  Norsemen  ! 
When  on  the  white  sea-strand, 
Waving  his  armed  hand, 
Saw  we  old  Hildebrand, 

With  twenty  horsemen. 

"  Then  launched  they  to  the  blast, 
Bent  like  a  reed  each  mast, 
Yet  we  were  gaining  fast, 

When  the  wind  failed  us  ; 
And  with  a  sudden  flaw 
Came  round  the  gusty  Skaw, 
So  that  our  foe  we  saw 

Laugh  as  he  hailed  us. 

"  And  as  to  catch  the  gale 
Eound  veered  the  flapping  sail, 
Death  !  was  the  helmsman's  hail, 

Death  without  quarter ! 
Mid-ships  with  iron  keel 
Struck  we  her  ribs  of  steel ; 
Down  her  black  hulk  did  reel 

Through  the  black  water  ! 


588  THE   SKELETON  IN  ARMOR. 

"As  with  his  wings  aslant, 
Sails  the  fierce  cormorant, 
Seeking  some  rocky  haunt, 

With  his  prey  laden, 
So  toward  the  open  main, 
Beating  to  sea  again, 
Through  the  wild  hurricane, 

Bore  I  the  maiden. 

"  Three  weeks  we  westward  bore, 
And  when  the  storm  was  o'er, 
•  Cloudlike  we  saw  the  shore 

Stretching  to  lee-ward ; 
There  for  my  lady's  bower 
Built  I  the  lofty  tower, 
Which,  to  this  very  hour, 

Stands  looking  seaward. 

"  There  lived  we  many  years ; 
Time  dried  the  maiden's  tears  ;' 
She  had  forgot  her  fears, 

She  was  a  mother  ; 
Death  closed  her  mild  blue  eyes, 
Under  that  tower  she  lies ; 
Ne'er  shall  the  sun  arise 

On  such  another ! 

"  Still  grew  my  bosom  then, 
Still  as  a  stagnant  fen  ! 
Hateful  to  me  were  men, 

The  sunlight  hateful ! 
In  the  vast  forest  here, 
Clad  in  my  warlike  gear, 
Fell  I  upon  my  spear, 

Oh,  death  was  grateful ! 


LONGFELLOW. 


THE  PILGRIM'S    VISION.  589 


CAVALIER'S   SONG. 

BOOT,  saddle  to  horse  and  away ! 
Rescue  my  castle  before  the  hot  day 
Brightens  to  blue  from  its  silvery  gray : 
Boot,  saddle  to  horse  and  away ! 

Ride  past  the  suburbs,  asleep  as  you  'd  say ; 
Many 's  the  friend  there  will  listen  and  pray, 
"  God's  luck  to  gallants  that  strike  up  the  lay, 
Boot,  saddle  to  horse  and  away  ! " 

Forty  miles  off  like  a  roebuck  at  bay, 
Floats  Castle  Brancepith,  the  Roundheads'  array ; 
Who  laughs,  "  Good  fellows,  ere  this,  by  my  fay, 
Boot,  saddle  to  horse  and  away  "  ? 

Who  ?  my  wife  Gertrude,''  that 's  honest  and  gay, 
Laughs  when  you  talk  of  surrendering,  "  Nay  ! " 
I  Ve  better  counsellors ;  what  counsel  they  ? 
"  Boot,  saddle  to  horse  and  away  !  " 

BROWNING. 


THE   PILGRIM'S   VISION. 

"  I  SAW  in  the  naked  forest 

Our  scattered  remnant  cast, 
A  screen  of  shivering  branches 

Between  them  and  the  blast ; 
The  snow  was  falling  round  them, 

The  dying  fell  as  fast ; 
I  looked  to  see  them  perish, 

When,  lo  !  the  vision  passed. 


590  THE  PILGRIM'S    VISION. 

"  Again  mine  eyes  were  opened,  — 

The  feeble  had  waxed  strong, 
The  babes  had  grown  to  sturdy  men, 

The  remnant  was  a  throng ; 
By  shadowed  lake  and  winding  stream, 

And  all  the  shores  along, 
The  howling  demons  quaked  to  hear 

The  Christian's  godly  song. 

"  They  slept  —  the  village  fathers  — 

By  river,  lake,  and  shore, 
When  far  adown  the  steep  of  time 

The  vision  rose  once  more ; 
I  saw  along  the  winter  snow 

A  spectral  column  pour, 
And  high  above  their  broken  ranks 

A  tattered  flag  they  bore. 

"  Their  leader  rode  before  them, 

Of  bearing  calm  and  high, 
The  light  of  heaven's  own  kindling 

Throned  in  his  awful  eye, 
These  were  a  nation's  champions 

Her  dread  appeal  to  try  ; 
God  for  the  right !  I  faltered, 

And,  lo !  the  train  passed  by. 

"  A  crash,  —  as  when  some  swollen  cloud 

Cracks  o'er  the  tangled  trees  ! 
With  side  to  side,  and  spar  to  spar, 

Whose  smoking  decks  are  these  ? 
I  know  St.  George's  blood-red  cross, 

Thou  Mistress  of  the  Seas,  — 
But  what  is  she,  whose  streaming  bars 

Eoll  out  before  the  breeze  ? 


THE  PILGRIM'S    VISION.  591 

"  Ah,  well  her  iron  ribs  are  knit, 

Whose  thunders  strive  to  quell 
The  bellowing  throats,  the  blazing  lips, 

That  pealed  the  Armada's  knell ! 
The  mist  was  cleared,  a  wreath  of  stars 

Rose  o'er  the  crimsoned  swell, 
And,  wavering  from  its  haughty  peak, 

The  cross  of  England  fell ! 

"  O  trembling  faith  !  though  dark  the  morn, 

A  heavenly  torch  is  thine ; 
While  feebler  races  melt  away, 

And  paler  orbs  decline, 
Still  shall  the  fiery  pillar's  ray 

Along  the  pathway  shine, 
To  light  the  chosen  tribe  that  sought 

This  western  Palestine ! 

"  I  see  the  living  tide  roll  on  ; 

It  crowns  with  flaming  towers 
The  icy  capes  of  Labrador, 

The  Spaniard's  '  land  of  flowers  ! ' 
It  streams  beyond  the  splintered  ridge 

That  parts  the  northern  showers ; 
From  eastern  rock  to  sunset  wave, 

The  continent  is  ours." 

The  weary  pilgrim  slumbers, 

His  resting-place  unknown ; 
His  hands  were  crossed,  his  lids  were  closed, 

The  dust  was  o'er  him  strewn  ; 
The  drifting  soil,  the  mouldering  leaf, 

Along  the  sod  were  blown ; 
His  mound  has  melted  into  earth, 

His  memory  lives  alone. 


592  HYMN  OF   THE  MORAVIAN  NUNS, 

So  let  it  live  unfading, 

The  memory  of  the  dead, 
Long  as  the  pale  anemone 

Springs  where  their  tears  were  shed, 
Or,  raining  in  the  summer's  wind 

In  flakes  of  burning  red, 
The  wild  rose  sprinkles  with  its  leaves 

The  turf  where  once  they  bled. 

HOLMES. 

I  heard  the  original  reading  of  this  by  Mr.  HOLMES  at  PLYMOUTH  before  a 
brilliant  audience.  It  had  more  effect  than  all  the  speeches  which  preceded  it, 
including  those  of  Everett,  Choate,  and  Hillard. 


HYMN  OF  THE  MOEAVIAN  NUNS  OF  BETHLEHEM, 

AT  THE  CONSECKATION  OF  PULASKl'S  BANNER. 

WHEN  the  dying  flame  of  day 

Through  the  chancel  shot  its  ray, 

Far  the  glimmering  tapers  shed 

Faint  light  on  the  cowled  head ; 

And  the  censer  burning  swung, 

Where,  before  the  altar,  hung 

The  crimson  banner,  that  with  prayer 

Had  been  consecrated  there. 

And  the  nuns'  sweet  hymn  was  heard  the  while, 

Sung  low,  in  the  dim,  mysterious  aisle. 

"  Take  thy  banner !     May  it  wave 
Proudly  o'er  the  good  and  brave, 
When  the  battle's  distant  wail 
Breaks  the  Sabbath  of  our  vale, 


AUF   WIEDERSEHEN!  593 

| 

When  the  clarion's  music  thrills 
To  the  hearts  of  these  lone  hills, 
When  the  spear  in  conflict,  shakes, 
And  the  strong  lance  shivering  breaks. 

"  Take  thy  banner !  and,  beneath 
The  battle-cloud's  encircling  wreath, 
Guard  it,  till  our  homes  are  free  ! 
Guard  it !  God  will  prosper  thee  ! 
In  the  dark  and  trying  hour, 
In  the  breaking  forth  of  power, 
In  the  rush  of  steeds  and  men, 
His  right  hand  will  shield  thee  then." 

LONGFELLOW. 


AUF   WIEDEESEHEN ! 

SUMMER. 

THE  little  gate  was  reached  at  last, 
Half  hid  in  lilacs  down  the  lane ; 
She  pushed  it  wide,  and,  as  she  past, 
A  wistful  look  she  backward  cast, 
And  said,  "  Auf  Wiedersehen  !  " 

With  hand  on  latch,  a  vision  white 

Lingered  reluctant,  and  again 
Half  doubting  if  she  did  aright, 
Soft  as  the  dews  that  fell  that  night, 
She  said,  "  Auf  Wiedersehen  !  " 

The  lamp's  clear  gleam  flits  up  the  stair ; 
I  linger  in  delicious  pain  ; 
88 


594  HYMN. 

Ah,  in  that  chamber  whose  rich  air 
To  breathe  in  thought  I  scarcely  dare, 
Thinks  she,  "  Avf  Wicderselicn  !  " 

'T  is  thirteen  years ;  once  more  I  press 

The  turf  that  silences  the  lane ; 
I  hear  the  rustle  of  her  dress, 
I  smell  the  lilacs,  and  —  ah,  yes, 
I  hear  "  Auf  Wiedersehen  ! ' 

Sweet  piece  of  bashful  maiden  art ! 

The  English  words  had  seemed  too  fain, 
But  these  —  they  drew  us  heart  to  heart, 
Yet  held  us  tenderly  apart ; 

She  said,  "  Auf  Wiedersehen  I " 


LOWELL. 


HYMN 

SUNG    AT    THE    COMPLETION    OF    THE    CONCORD    MONUMENT, 
APRIL  19,  1846. 

BY  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 
Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 

Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood, 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept ; 

Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 

Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward  creeps. 

On  this  green  bank,  by  this  soft  stream, 

We  set  to-day  a  votive  stone ; 
That  memory  may  their  deed  redeem, 

When,  like  our  sires,  our  sons  are  gone. 


JONATHAN  TO  JOHN.  595 

Spirit,  that  made  those  heroes  dare 

To  die,  and  leave  their  children  free, 
Bid  Time  and  Nature  gently  spare 

The  shaft  we  raise  to  them  and  thee. 

EMERSOX. 


JONATHAN   TO   JOHN. 

IT  don't  seem  hardly  right,  John, 
When  both  my  hands  was  full, 
To  stump  me  to  a  fight,  John,  — 
Your  cousin,  tu,  John  Bull ! 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess 
We  know  it  now,"  sez  he, 
"  The  lion's  paw  is  all  the  law, 
Accordin'  to  J.  B., 
Thet  's  fit  for  you  an'  me  ! " 

You  wonder  why  we  're  hot,  John  ? 

Your  mark  wuz  on  the  guns, 
The  neutral  guns,  thet  shot,  John, 
Our  brothers  an'  our  sons  : 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he, "  I  guess 
There 's  human  blood,"  sez  he, 
"  By  fits  an'  starts,  in  Yankee  hearts, 
Though  't  may  surprise  J.  B. 
More  'n  it  would  you  an'  me." 

Ef  /  turned  mad  dogs  loose,  John, 

On  your  front-parlor  stairs, 
Would  it  jest  meet  your  views,  John, 
To  wait  an'  sue  their  heirs  ? 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess, 
I  on'y  guess,"  sez  he, 


596  JONATHAN   TO  JOHN. 

"  Thet  ef  Vattel  on  his  toes  fell, 
'T  would  kind  o'  rile  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me  ! " 

We  own  the  ocean,  tu,  J  ohn  : 

You  mus'  n'  take  it  hard, 
Ef  we  can't  think  with  you,  John, 
It 's  jest  your  own  back-yard. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess, 
Ef  tliet  's  his  claim,"  sez  he, 
"  The  fencin'-stuff  '11  cost  enough 
To  bust  up  friend  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me  ! " 

We  give  the  critters  back,  John, 

Cos  Abram  thought  't  was  right ; 
It  warn't  your  bullyin'  clack,  John, 
Provokin'  us  to  fight. 

Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess 
We  Ve  a  hard  row,"  sez  he, 
"  To  hoe  jest  now  ;  but  thet,  somehow, 
May  happen  to  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me ! " 

We  ain't  so  weak  an'  poor,  John, 

With  twenty  million  people, 
An'  close  to  every  door,  John, 
A  school-house  an'  a  steeple. 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess 
It  is  a  fact,"  sez  he, 
''  The  surest  plan  to  make  a  mail 
Is,  Think  him  so,  J.  B., 
Ez  much  ez  you  or  me ! " 


THE  HAPPIEST  LAND.  597 

The  South  says,  "  Poor  folks  down!"  John, 

An'  "  All  men  up  !  "  say  we,  — 
White,  yaller,  black,  an'  brown,  John : 
Now  which  is  your  idee  ? 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess 
John  preaches  wal,"  sez  he ; 
"  Hut,  sermon  thru,  an'  come  to  du 
Why,  there 's  the  old  J.  B. 
A  crowdin'  you  an'  me ! " 

Shall  it  be  love,  or  hate,  John  ? 

It 's  you  thet  's  to  decide  ; 
Ain't  your  bonds  held  by  Fate,  John, 
Like  all  the  world's  beside  ? 
Ole  Uncle  S.  sez  he,  "  I  guess 
Wise  men  forgive,"  sez  he, 
"  But  not  forget ;  an'  some  time  yet 
Thet  truth  may  strike  J.  B., 
Ez  wal  ez  you  an'  me  !" 


LOWELL. 


THE  HAPPIEST   LAND. 

(From  the  German.) 

THERE  sat  one  day  in  quiet, 
By  an  alehouse  on  the  Rhine, 

Four  hale  and  hearty  fellows, 
And  drank  the  precious  wine. 

The  landlord's  daughter  filled  their  cups, 

Around  the  rustic  board ; 
Then  sat  they  all  so  calm  and  still, 

And  spake  not  one  rude  word. 


598  THE  HAPPIEST  LAND. 

But  when  the  maid  departed, 

A  Swabian  raised  his  hand, 
And  cried,  all  hot  and  flushed  with  wine, 

"  Long  live  the  Swabian  land ! 

"  The  greatest  kingdom  upon  earth 

Cannot  with  that  compare ; 
With  all  the  stout  and  hardy  men, 

And  the  nut-brown  maidens  there." 

"  Ha  !  "  cried  a  Saxon,  laughing, 
And  dashed  his  beard  with  wine , 

"  I  had  rather  live  in  Lapland, 
Than  that  Swabian  land  of  thine ! 

"  The  goodliest  land  on  all  this  earth, 

It  is  the  Saxon  land  ! 
There  have  I  as  many  maidens 

As  fingers  on  this  hand  !  " 

"  Hold  your  tongues  !  both  Swabian  and  Saxon  ! " 

A  bold  Bohemian  cries  ; 
"  If  there  's  a  heaven  upon  this  earth, 

In  Bohemia  it  lies. 

"  There  the  tailor  blows  the  flute, 
And  the  cobbler  blows  the  horn, 

And  the  miner  blows  the  bugle, 
Over  mountain  gorge  and  bourn." 

And  then  the  landlord's  daughter 

Up  to  heaven  raised  her  hand, 
And  said,  "  Ye  may  no  more  contend ; 

There  lies  the  happiest  land !" 

LONGFELLOW. 


THE  BALLAD   OF  THE  BRIDES   OF  QUAIR.        599 


THE   BALLAD   OF  THE   BEIDES   OF   QUAIE. 

A  STILLNESS  crept  about  the  house, 

At  even's  fall,  in  noontide  glare; 
Upon  the  silent  hills  looked  forth 

The  many-windowed  house  of  Quair. 

The  peacock  on  the  terrace  screamed, 
Browsed  on  the  lawn  the  timid  hare, 

The  great  trees  grew  i'  the  avenue, 
Calm  by  the  sheltered  house  of  Quair. 

The  pool  was  still,  around  its  brim 

The  alders  sickened  all  the  air  ; 
There  came  no  murmur  from  the  streams, 

Though  nigh  flowed  Leithern,  Tweed,  and  Quair. 

The  days  hold  on  their  wonted  pace, 

And  men  to  court  and  camp  repair, 
Their  part  to  fill,  of  good  or  ill, 

While  women  keep  the  house  of  Quair. 

And  one  is  clad  in  widow's  weeds, 

And  one  is  maiden-like  and  fair ; 
And  day  by  day  they  seek  the  paths 

About  the  lonely  fields  of  Quair. 

To  see  the  trout  leap  in  the  streams, 

The  summer  clouds  reflected  there, 
The  maiden  loves  in  happy  dreams 

To  hang  o'er  silver  Tweed  and  Quair. 


600         THE  BALLAD   OF  THE  BRIDES   OF  QUAIR. 

Or  oft  in  pall-black  velvet  clad, 
Sat  stately  in  the  oaken  chair, 

Like  many  a  dame  of  her  ancient  name, 
The  mother  of  the  house  of  Quair. 

Her  daughter  broidered  by  her  side, 
With  heavy  drooping  golden  hair, 

And  listened  to  her  frequent  plaint,  — 
"  111  fare  the  brides  that  come  to  Quair. 

"  For  more  than  one  hath  lived  in  pine, 
And  more  than  one  hath  died  of  care, 

And  more  than  one  hath  sorely  sinned, 
Left  lonely  in  the  house  of  Quair. 

"  Alas  !  and  ere  thy  father  died, 
I  had  not  in  his  heart  a  share, 

And  now  —  may  God  foreferid  her  ill  — 
Thy  brother  brings  his  bride  to  Quair." 

She  came  :  they  kissed  her  in  the  hall, 
They  kissed  her  on  the  winding  stair  ; 

They  led  her  to  her  chamber  high, 
The  fairest  in  the  house  of  Quair. 

They  bade  her  from  the  window  look, 
And  mark  the  scene  how  passing  i'air, 

Among  whose  ways  the  quiet  days 
Would  linger  o'er  the  wife  of  Quair. 

"  'T  is  fair,"  she  said  on  looking  forth, 

"  But  what  although  't  were  bleak  and  bare  - 

She  looked  the  love  she  did  not  speak., 
And  broke  the  ancient  curse  on  Quair. 


VISION  OF  BELSHAZZAR.  601 

"  Where'er  he  dwells,  where'er  he  goes, 

His  dangers  and  his  toils  I  share." 
What  need  be  said  ?  —  she  was  not  one 

Of  the  ill-fated  brides  of  Quair. 

ISA  CRAIQ. 


VISION   OF   BELSHAZZAK. 

THE  king  was  on  his  throne, 

The  satraps  thronged  the  hall ; 
A  thousand  bright  lamps  shone 

O'er  that  high  festival. 
A  thousand  cups  of  gold, 

Iii  Judah  deemed  divine,  — 
Jehovah's  vessels  hold 

The  godless  heathen's  wine ! 

In  that  same  hour  and  hall, 

The  fingers  of  a  hand 
Came  forth  against  the  wall, 

And  wrote  as  if  on  sand  : 
The  fingers  of  a  man  ;  — 

A  solitary  hand 
Along  the  letters  ran, 

And  traced  them  like  a  wand. 

The  monarch  saw,  and  shook, 

And  bade  no  more  rejoice : 
All  bloodless  waxed  his  look, 

And  tremulous  his  voice. 
"  Let  the  men  of  lore  appear, 

The  wisest  of  the  earth, 
And  expound  the  words  of  fear 

Which  mar  our  royal  mirth." 


602  TO    THE  DEVIL. 

Chaldsea's  seers  are  good, 

But  here  they  have  no  skill ; 
And  the  unknown  letters  stood 

Untold  and  awful  still. 
And  Babel's  men  of  age 

Are  wise  and  deep  in  lore ; 
But  now  they  were  not  sage,  — 

They  saw,  but  knew  no  more. 

A  captive  in  the  land, 

A  stranger  and  a  youth,  — 
He  heard  the  king's  command, 

He  saw  that  writing's  truth. 
The  lamps  around  were  bright, 

The  prophecy  in  view : 
He  read  it  on  that  night,  — 

The  morrow  proved  it  true. 

"  Belshazzar's  grave  is  made, 

His  kingdom  passed  away  ; 
He  in  the  balance  weighed 

Is  light  and  worthless  clay. 
The  shroud,  his  robe  of  state ; 

His  canopy,  the  stone ; 
The  Mede  is  at  his  gate  ! 

The  Persian  on  his  throne  ! " 

BY  EON. 

TO   THE  DEVIL. 

BUT  fare  you  weel,  auld  Nickie-ben ! 
Oh,  wad  ye  tak  a  thought  an'  men' ! 
Ye  aiblins  might  —  I  dinna  ken  — 

Still  hae  a  stake  : 
I  'm  wae  to  think  upon  yon  den, 

Ev'n  for  your  sake  !  BURNS. 


HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  GOOD  NEWS  FROM  GHENT.     603 


HOW  THEY   BEOUGHT   THE   GOOD   NEWS  FKOM 
GHENT   TO   AIX. 

I  SPRANG  to  the  stirrup,  and  Joris  and  he ; 

I  galloped,  Dirck  galloped,  we  galloped  all  three ; 

"  Good  speed  ! "  cried  the  watch,  as  the  gate-bolts  undrew, 

"  Speed  ! "  echoed  the  wall  to  us  galloping  through ; 

Behind  shut  the  postern,  the  lights  sank  to  rest, 

And  into  the  midnight  we  galloped  abreast. 

Not  a  word  to  each  other :  we  kept  the  great  pace 
Neck  and  neck,  stride  by  stride,  never  changing  our  place. 
I  turned  in  my  saddle  and  made  its  girths  tight, 
Then  shortened  each  stirrup  and  set  the  pique  right, 
Eebuckled  the  check-strap,  chained  slacker  the  bit ; 
Nor  galloped  less  steadily  Eoland  a  whit. 

'T  was  moonset  at  starting,  but  while  we  drew  near 

Lokeren,  the  cocks  crew,  and  twilight  dawned  clear ; 

At  Boom,  a  great  yellow  star  came  out  to  see ; 

At  Diiffeld,  't  was  morning  as  plain  as  could  be  ; 

And  from  Mecheln  church-steeple  we  heard  the  half  chime, 

So  Joris  broke  silence  with  "  Yet  there  is  time." 

At  Aerschot,  up  leaped  of  a  sudden  the  sun, 
And  against  him  the  cattle  stood  black  every  one 
To  stare  through  the  mist  at  us  galloping  past ; 
And  I  saw  my  stout  galloper,  Eoland,  at  last, 
With  resolute  shoulders  each  butting  away 
The  haze,  as  some  bluff  river  headland  its  spray. 

And  his  low  head  and  crest,  just  one  sharp  ear  bent  back 
For  my  voice,  and  the  other  pricked  out  on  his  track ; 


604    HOW  THEY  BROUGHT  GOOD  NEWS  FROM  GHENT. 

And  one  eye's  black  intelligence,  —  ever  that  glance 
O'er  its  white  edge  at  me,  its  own  master,  askance ! 
And  the  thick  heavy  spume-flakes,  which  aye  and  anon 
His  fierce  lips  shook  upwards  in  galloping  on. 

By  Hasselt,  Dirck  groaned ;  and  cried  Joris,  "  Stay  spur  ! 

Your  Eoos  galloped  bravely,  the  fault 's  not  in  her, 

We  '11  remember  at  Aix  ; "  •  —  for  one  heard  the  quick  wheeze 

Of  her  chest,  saw  the  stretched  neck  and  staggering  knees, 

And  sunk  tail,  and  horrible  heave  of  the  flank, 

As  down  on  her  haunches  she  shuddered  and  sank. 

So  we  were  left  galloping,  Joris  and  I, 

Past  Looz  and  past  Tongres,  no  cloud  in  the  sky ; 

The  broad  sun  above  laughed  a  pitiless  laugh, 

'Neath  our  feet  broke  the  brittle  bright  stubble  like  chaff; 

Till  over  by  Dalhelm  a  dome-spire  sprang  white, 

And  "  Gallop,"  gasped  Joris,  "  for  Aix  is  in  sight ! " 

"  How  they  '11  greet  us  ! "  —  and  all  in  a  moment  his  roan 
Rolled  neck  and  croup  over,  lay  dead  as  a  stone ; 
And  there  was  my  Roland  to  bear  the  whole  weight 
Of  the  news,  which  alone  could  save  Aix  from  her  fate, 
With  his  nostrils  like  pits  full  of  blood  to  the  brim, 
And  with  circles  of  red  for  his  eye-socket's  rim. 

Then  I  cast  loose  my  buff  coat,  each  holster  let  fall, 

Shook  off  both  my  jack-boots,  let  go  belt  and  all, 

Stood  up  in  the  stirrup,  leaned,  patted  his  ear, 

Called  my  Roland  his  pet  name,  my  horse  without  peer ; 

Clapped  my  hands,  laughed  and  sang,  any  noise  bad  or  good, 

Till  at  length  into  Aix  Roland  galloped  and  stood. 

And  all  I  remember  is  friends  flocking  round, 

As  I  sate  with  his  head  twixt  my  knees  on  the  ground, 


LOCHIEL'S   WARNING.  605 

And  no  voice  but  was  praising  this  Eoland  of  mine, 
As  I  poured  down  his  throat  our  last  measure  of  wine, 
Which  (the  burgesses  voted  by  common  consent) 
Was  no  more  than  his  due  who  brought  good  news  from  Ghent. 

BROWNING. 


LOCHIEL'S  WARNING. 


LOCHIEL. 

FALSE  wizard,  avaunt !     I  have  marshalled  my  clan ; 
Their  swords  are  a  thousand,  their  bosoms  are  one  ! 
They  are  true  to  the  last  of  their  blood  and  their  breath, 
And  like  reapers  descend  to  the  harvest  of  death. 
Then  welcome  be  Cumberland's  steed  to  the  shock ! 
Let  him  dash  his  proud  foam  like  a  wave  on  the  rock ! 
But  woe  to  his  kindred,  and  woe  to  his  cause, 
When  Albin  her  claymore  indignantly  draws  ; 
When  her  bonneted  chieftains  to  victory  crowd, 
Clanronald  the  dauntless,  and  Moray  the  prc-ud, 
All  plaided  and  plumed  in  their  tartan  array  — 

WIZARD. 

Lochiel  —  Lochiel  —  beware  of  the  day ; 

For,  dark  and  despairing,  my  sight  I  may  seal, 

But  man  cannot  cover  what  God  would  reveal ; 

'T  is  the  sunset  of  life  gives  me  mystical  lore," 

And  coming  events  cast  their  shadows  before. 

I  tell  thee,  Culloden's  dread  echoes  shall  ring 

With  the  bloodhounds  that  bark  for  thy  fugitive  king. 

Lo !  anointed  by  heaven  with  the  vials  of  wrath, 

Behold,  where  he  flies  on  his  desolate  path  ! 


606  LOCHIEL'S   WARNING. 

Now  in  darkness  and  billows  he  sweeps  from  my  sight : 

Eise,  rise !  ye  wild  tempests,  and  cover  his  flight ! 

'T  is  finished.     Their  thunders  are  hushed  on  the  moors; 

Culloden  is  lost,  and  my  country  deplores. 

But  where  is  the  iron-bound  prisoner  ?  where  ? 

For  the  red  eye  of  battle  is  shut  in  despair. 

Say,  mounts  he  the  ocean-wave,  banished,  forlorn, 

Like  a  limb  from  his  country  cast  bleeding  and  torn  ? 

Ah,  no  !  for  a  darker  departure  is  near  : 

The  war-drum  is  muffled,  and  black  is  the  bier ; 

His  death-bell  is  tolling.     Oh  !  mercy,  dispel 

Yon  sight,  that  it  freezes  my  spirit  to  tell ! 

Life  flutters  convulsed  in  his  quivering  limbs, 

And  his  blood-streaming  nostril  in  agony  swims. 

Accursed  be  the  fagots  that  blaze  at  his  feet, 

Where  his  heart  shall  be  thrown  ere  it  ceases  to  beat, 

With  the  smoke  of  its  ashes  to  poison  the  gale  — 

LOCHIEL. 

Down,  soothless  insulter !     I  trust  not  the  tale : 

For  never  shall  Albin  a  destiny  meet 

So  black  with  dishonor,  so  foul  with  retreat. 

Though  my  perishing  ranks  should  be  strewed  in  their  gore, 

Like  ocean  weeds  heaped  on  the  surf-beaten  shore, 

Lochiel,  untainted  by  flight  or  by  chains, 

While  the  kindling  of  fire  in  his  bosom  remains, 

Shall  victor  exult,  or  in  death  be  laid  low, 

With  his  back  to  the  field,  and  his  feet  to  the  foe ! 

And,  leaving  in  battle  no  blot  on  his  name, 

Look  proudly  to  heaven  from  the  death-bed  of  fame. 

CAMPBELL. 


PERCY  CLAIMING  HIS   OWN.  607 


PERCY  CLAIMING  HIS   OWK 

Too  long,  too  long  a  masquer,  Arthur  comes, 
Stripped  of  disguise,  this  night,,  to  execute 
His  father's  testament,  whose  blood  lies  spilt, 
Whose  murmurs  from  the  tomb  are  in  his  ears, 
Whose  injuries  are  treasured  in  a  scroll 
Steeped  with  a  mother's  and  an  orphan's  tears. 
O'er  that  dark  record  has  my  spirit  groaned, 
Since  dawning  reason,  in  unuttered  anguish. 
When  others  danced,  struck  the  glad  wire,  or  caught 
The  thrilling  murmurs  of  loved  lips,  I  roamed 
Where  the  hill-foxes  howl,  and  eagles  cry, 
Brooding,  o'er  wrongs  that  haunted  me  for  vengeance. 

For  I  have  been  an  outcast  from  my  cradle ; 
Poor,  and  in  exile,  while  an  alien  called 
My  birthright,  home.     Halls  founded  by  my  sires 
Have  blazed  and  rudely  rung  with  stranger  triumphs ; 
Their  honorable  name  rivals  have  stained  ; 
Trampled  their  laurels  and  profaned  their  bones  ; 
Hence  have  I  labored ;  watched  while  others  slept ; 
Known  not  the  spring  of  life,  nor  ever  plucked 
One  vernal  blossom  in  the  day  of  youth. 
The  harvest  of  my  toils,  this  night,  I  reap  ; 
For  death,  this  night,  or  better  life  awaits  me. 
Before  my  lord  the  King  I  stand,  and  claim 
Northumberland,  my  just  inheritance, 
As  Henry  Percy,  son  and  heir  of  Hotspur. 

JAMES  A.  HILLHOUSE,  Percy's  Masque. 


608  THE   CUMBERLAND. 


THE  CUMBERLAND. 

AT  anchor  in  Hampton  Roads  we  lay, 

On  board  of  the  Cumberland,  sloop-of-war ; 
And  at  times  from  the  fortress  across  the  bay 
The  alarum  of  drums  swept  past, 
Or  a  bugle  blast 
From  the  camp  on  the  shore. 

Then  far  away  to  the  south  uprose 

A  little  feather  of  snow-white  smoke, 
And  we  knew  that  the  iron  ship  of  our  foes 
Was  steadily  steering  its  course 
To  try  the  force 
Of  our  ribs  of  oak. 

Down  upon  us  heavily  runs, 

Silent  and  sullen,  the  floating  fort ; 
Then  comes  a  puff  of  smoke  from  her  guns, 
And  leaps  the  terrible  death, 
With  fiery  breath, 
From  each  open  port. 

We  are  not  idle,  but  send  her  straight 

Defiance  back  in  a  full  broadside  ! 
As  hail  rebounds  from  a  roof  of  slate, 
Rebounds  our  heavier  hail 
From  each  iron  scale 
Of  the  monster's  hide. 

"  Strike  your  flag  !  "  the  rebel  cries, 
In  his  arrogant  old  plantation  strain. 


MOURNER  A  LA   MODE.  609 

"  Never ! "  our  gallant  Morris  replies  : 

"It  is  better  to  sink  than  to  yield  !  " 
And  the  whole  air  pealed 
With  the  cheers  of  our  men. 

Then,  like  a  kraken  huge  and  black, 

She  crushed  our  ribs  in  her  iron  grasp  ! 
Down  went  the  Cumberland  all  a  wrack, 
With  a  sudden  shudder  of  death, 
And  the  cannon's  breath 
For  her  dying  gasp. 

Next  morn,  as  the  sun  rose  over  the  bay, 

Still  floated  our  flag  at  the  mainmast-head. 
Lord,  how  beautiful  was  thy  day  ! 
Every  waft  of  the  air 
Was  a  whisper  of  prayer, 
Or  a  dirge  for  the  dead. 

Ho  !  brave  hearts  that  went  down  in  the  seas  ! 

Ye  are  at  peace  in  the  troubled  stream. 
Ho !  brave  land  !  with  hearts  like  these, 

Thy  flag,  that  is  rent  in  twain, 

Shall  be  one  again, 

And  without  a  seam  ! 

LONGFELLOW. 
I  was  there  the  following  week.  —  J.  M.  F. 


MOURNER  1   LA   MODE. 

I  SAW  her  last  night  at  a  party 
(The  elegant  party  at  Mead's), 

And  looking  remarkably  hearty 

For  a  widow  so  young  in  her  weeds. 
39 


610  MOURNER   A  LA   MODE. 

,  Yet  I  know  she  was  suffering  sorrow 

Too  deep  for  the  tongue  to  express, 
Or  why  had  she  chosen  to  borrow 
So  much  from  the  language  of  dress  ? 

,Her  shawl  was  as  sable  as  night ; 

Her  gloves  were  as  dark  as  her  shawl ; 
And  her  jewels  —  that  flashed  in  the  light 

Were  black  as  a  funeral  pall ; 
Her  robe  had  the  hue  of  the  rest, 

(How  nicely  it  fitted  her  shape !) 
And  the  grief  that  was  heaving  her  breast 

Boiled  over  in  billows  of  crape  ! 

What  tears  of  vicarious  woe, 

That  else  might  have  sullied  her  face, 
Were  kindly  permitted  to  flow 

In  ripples  of  ebony  lace  ! 
While  even  her  fan,  in  its  play, 

Had  quite  a  lugubrious  scope, 
And  seemed  to  be  waving  away 

The  ghost  of  the  angel  of  hope ! 

Yet  rich  as  the  robes  of  a  queen 

Was  the  sombre  apparel  she  wore. 
I  'm  certain  I  never  had  seen 

Such  a  sumptuous  sorrow  before ; 
And  I  could  n't  help  thinking  the  beauty, 

In  mourning  the  loved  and  the  lost, 
Was  doing  her  conjugal  duty 

Altogether  regardless  of  cost ! 

One  surely  would  say  a  devotion 
Performed  at  so  vast  an  expense 

Betrayed  an  excess  of  emotion 

That  was  really  something  immense ; 


THE   GHEBERS*   FIGHT.  611 

And  yet,  as  I  viewed  at  my  leisure, 

These  tokens  of  tender  regard, 
I  thought,  It  is  scarce  without  measure,  — 

The  sorrow  that  goes  by  the  yard ! 

SAXE. 


THE   GHEBERS'   FIGHT. 

THERE  was  a  deep  ravine  that  lay 

Yet  darkling  in  the  Moslems'  way,  — 

Fit  spot  to  make  invaders  rue 

The  many  fallen  before  the  few. 

The  torrents  from  that  morning's  sky 

Had  filled  the  narrow  chasm  breast-high, 

And  on  each  side,  aloft  and  wild, 

Huge  cliffs  and  toppling  crags  were  piled,  — 

The  guards  with  which  young  Freedom  lines 

The  pathways  to  her  mountain  shrines. 

Here,  at  this  pass,  the  scanty  band 

Of  Iran's  last  avengers  stand ; 

Here  wait,  in  silence  like  the  dead, 

And  listen  for  the  Moslems'  tread 

So  anxiously,  the  carrion-bird 

Above  them  flaps  his  wings  unheard ! 

They  come,  —  that  plunge  into  the  water 
Gives  signal  for  the  work  of  slaughter. 
Now,  Ghebers,  now,  —  if  e'er  your  blades 
Had  point  or  prowess,  prove  them  now ! 
Woe  to  the  file  that  foremost  wades ! 
They  corne,  —  a  falchion  greets  each  brow, 
And,  as  they  tumble,  trunk  on  trunk, 
Beneath  the  gory  waters  sunk, 


612  MASON  AND  SLIDELL. 

Still  o'er  their  drowning  bodies  press 
New  victims  quick  and  numberless  ; 
Till  scarce  an  arm  in  Hafed's  band, 
So  fierce  their  toil,  hath  power  to  stir, 
But  listless  from  each  crimson  hand 
The  sword  hangs,  clogged  with  massacre. 


MOORE,  TJie  Fire-Worshippers. 


MASON   AND   SLIDELL. 

HEARKEN  in  your  ear,  — 

I  'm  older  'n  you,  —  Peace  wun't  keep  house  with  Fear 

Ef  you  want  peace,  the  thing  you  've  gut  to  du 

Is  jes'  to  show  you  're  up  to  fightin'  tu. 

I  recollect  how  sailors'  rights  was  won 

Yard  locked  in  yard,  hot  gun-lip  kissin'  gun : 

Why,  afore  thet,  John  Bull  sot  up  thet  he 

Hed  gut  a  kind  o'  mortgage  on  the  sea ; 

You  'd  thought  he  held  by  Gran'ther  Adam's  will, 

An'  ef  you  knuckle  down,  he  11  think  so  still. 

Better  thet  all  our  ships  an'  all  their  crews 

Should  sink  to  rot  in  ocean's  dreamless  ooze, 

Each  torn  flag  wavin'  chellenge  ez  it  went, 

An'  each  dumb  gun  a  brave  man's  moniment, 

Than  seek  sech  peace  ez  only  cowards  crave : 

Give  me  the  peace  of  dead  men  or  of  brave ! 

An'  I  tell  you  it  wun't  be  money  lost; 
We  wun't  give  up  afore  the  ship  goes  down : 
It's  a  stiff  gale,  but  Providence  wun't  drown; 
An'  God  wun't  leave  us  yit  to  sink  or  swim, 


THE  DESPAIRING  LOVER.  613 

Ef  we  don't  fail  to  du  wut  's  right  by  him. 

This  land  o'  ourn,  I  tell  ye,  's  gut  to  be 

A  better  country  than  man  ever  see. 

I  feel  my  sperit  swellin'  with  a  cry 

Thet  seems  to  say,  "  Break  forth  an'  prophesy ! " 

O  strange  New  World,  thet  yit  wast  never  young, 

Whose  youth  from  thee  by  gripin'  need  was  wrung, 

Brown  foundlin'  o'  the  woods,  whose  baby-bed 

Was  prowled  roun'  by  the  Injuns'  cracklin'  tread, 

An'  who  grew'st  strong  thru  shifts  an'  wants  an'  pains, 

Nussed  by  stern  men  with  empires  in  their  brains, 

Who  saw  in  vision  their  young  Ishmel  strain 

With  each  hard  hand  a  vassal  ocean's  mane, 

Thou,  skilled  by  Freedom  an'  by  gret  events 

To  pitch  new  States  ez  Old- World  men  pitch  tents, 

Thou,  taught  by  Fate  to  know  Jehovah's  plan, 

Thet  man's  devices  can't  unmake  a  man, 

An'  whose  free  latch-string  never  was  drawed  in 

Against  the  poorest  child  of  Adam's  kin, — 

The  grave  's  not  dug  where  traitor  hands  shall  lay 

In  fearful  haste  thy  murdered  corse  away ! 

LOWELL. 


THE   DESPAIRING  LOVER 

DISTRACTED  with  care 

For  Phyllis  the  fair, 

Since  nothing  would  move  her, 

Poor  Damon,  her  lover, 

Resolves  not  to  languish 

And  bear  so  much  anguish ; 

But,  mad  with  his  love, 


614  THE  BARRING   0'    THE  DOOR. 

To  a  precipice  goes, 

Where  a  leap  from  above 

Would  soon  finish  his  woes. 

When  in  rage  he  caine  there, 

Beholding  how  steep 

The  sides  did  appear, 

And  the  bottom  how  deep, 

His  torments  projecting, 

And  sadly  reflecting 

That  a  lover  forsaken 

A  new  love  may  get, 

But  a  neck  when  once  broken 

Can  never  be  set ; 

And  that  he  could  die 

Whenever  he  would, 

But  that  he  could  live 

But  as  long  as  he  could, 

How  grievous  soever 

His  torments  might  grow, 

He  scorned  to  endeavor 

To  finish  it  so ; 

But,  bold,  unconcerned 

At  the  thoughts  of  the  pain, 

He  calmly  returned 

To  his  cottage  again. 

AXONYMOOS. 


THE  BARRING   O'   THE   DOOR. 

IT  fell  about  the  Martinmas  time, 

And  a  gay  time  it  was  than, 
When  our  gndewife  got  puddings  to  make, 

And  she  boiled  them  in  the  pan. 


THE  BARRING   O>    THE  DOOR.  615 

The  wind  sae  cauld  blew  east  and  north, 

It  blew  into  the  floor : 
Quoth  our  gudeman  to  our  gudewife, 

"  Gae  out  and  bar  the  door ! " 

"  My  hand  is  in  my  huswifs  kap, 

Gudeman,  as  ye  may  see ; 
An'  it  should  nae  be  barred  this  hundred  year, 

It 's  no  be  barred  for  me." 

They  made  a  paction  'tween  them  twa, 

They  made  it  firm  and  sure, 
That  the  first  word  whae'er  should  speak 

Should  rise  and  bar  the  door. 

Then  by  there  came  twa  gentlemen 

At  twelve  o'clock  at  night ; 
And  they  could  neither  see  house  nor  hall, 

Nor  coal  nor  candle-light. 

And  first  they  ate  the  white  puddings, 

And  then  they  ate  the  black ; 
Though  muckle  thought  the  gudewife  to  hersel', 

Yet  ne'er  a  word  she  spak'. 

Then  said  the  one  unto  the  other, 

"  Here,  man,  tak'  ye  my  knife  ! 
Do  ye  tak'  aff  the  auld  man's  beard, 

And  I  '11  kiss  the  gudewife." 

"  But  there 's  nae  water  in  the  house, 

And  what  shall  we  do  than  ? " 
"  What  ails  ye  at  the  puddin'  broo 

That  boils  into  the  pan  ? " 


616  THE  STRATAGEM. 

Oh,  up  then  started  our  gudeman, 

And  an  angry  man  was  he : 
"  Will  ye  kiss  my  wife  before  my  een, 

And  scaud  me  wi'  puddin'  bree  ? " 

Then  up  and.  started  our  gudewife, 

Gied  three  skips  on  the  floor : 
"  Gudeman,  ye  Ve  spoken  the  foremost  word,  — 

Get  up  and  bar  the  door ! " 

ANONYMOUS. 
A  favorite  of  S.  F. 


THE   STRATAGEM. 

No  martial  project  to  surprise, 
Can  ever  be  attempted  twice : 
Nor  cast  design  serve  afterwards, 
As  gamesters  tear  their  losing  cards. 
Besides  our  bangs  of  men  and  beast 
Are  fit  for  nothing  now  but  rest, 
And  for  a  while  will  not  be  able 
To  rally  and  prove  serviceable : 
And  therefore  I  with  reason  chose 
This  stratagem,  t'  amuse  our  foes, 
To  make  an  honorable  retreat, 
And  wave  a  total  sure  defeat : 
For  those  that  fly  may  fight  again, 
Which  he  can  never  do  that 's  slain. 
Hence  timely  running's  no  mean  part 
Of  conduct  in  the  martial  art. 

SAMUEL  BUTLER,  Hudibras. 


PORTIA'S   CHARGE   TO    THE  JEW,  617 


WHEN   SHALL   WE  ALL  MEET   AGAIN  ? 

WHEN  shall  we  all  meet  again  ? 
When  shall  we  all  meet  again  ? 
Oft  shall  glowing  hope  expire, 
Oft  shall  wearied  love  retire, 
Oft  shall  death  and  sorrow  reign, 
Ere  we  all  shall  meet  again. 

Though  in  distant  lands  we  sigh, 
Parched  beneath  a  hostile  sky  ; 
Though  the  deep  between  us  rolls, 
Friendship  shall  unite  our  souls. 
Still  in  fancy's  rich  domain 
Oft  shall  we  all  meet  again. 

When  the  dreams  of  life  are  fled, 
When  its  wasted  lamps  are  dead ; 
When  in  cold  oblivion's  shade 
Beauty,  power,  and  fame  are  laid ; 
Where  immortal  spirits  reign, 


There  shall  we  all  meet  again. 


ANONYMOUS. 


POKTIA'S   CHAEGE   TO   THE  JEW. 

THE  quality  of  mercy  is  not  strained ; 
It  droppeth  as  the  gentle  rain  from  heaven 
Upon  the  place  beneath  :  it  is  twice  blest ; 
It  blesseth  him  that  gives  and  him  that  takes  : 
T  is  mightiest  in  the  mightiest ;  it  becomes 
The  throned  monarch  better  than  his  crown  : 
His  sceptre  shows  the  force  of  temporal  power, 


618  THE    VISIT. 

The  attribute  to  awe  and  majesty, 
Wherein  doth  sit  the  dread  and  fear  of  kings  ; 
But  mercy  is  above  this  sceptred  sway  : 
It  is  enthroned  in  the  hearts  of  kings, ' 
It  is  an  attribute  to  God  himself ; 
And  earthly  power  doth  then  show  likest  God's 
When  mercy  seasons  justice.     Therefore,  Jew, 
Though  justice  be  thy  plea,  consider  this,  — 
That,  in  the  course  of  justice,  none  of  us 
Should  see  salvation  :   we  do  pray  for  mercy, 
And  that  same  prayer  doth  teach  us  all  to  render 
The  deeds  of  mercy.     I  have  spoke  thus  much, 
To  mitigate  the  justice  of  thy  plea ; 
Which  if  thou  follow,  this  strict  court  of  Venice 
Must  needs  give  sentence  'gainst  the  merchant  there. 

SHAKSPEARE,  Merchant  of  Venice. 


THE   VISIT. 

ASKEST,  "  How  long  thou  shalt  stay  ? 

Devastator  of.  the  day  ! 

Know,  each  substance  and  relation, 

Thorough  nature's  operation, 

Hath  its  unit,  bound,  and  metre  ; 

And  every  new  compound 

Is  some  product  and  repeater, — 

Product  of  the  earlier  found. 

But  the  unit  of  the  visit, 

The  encounter  of  the  wise,  — 

Say,  what  other  metre  is  it 

Than  the  meeting  of  the  eyes  ? 

Nature  poureth  into  nature 

Through  the  channels  of  that  feature 


TO  ALTHEA.  619 

Riding  on  the  ray  of  sight, 

Fleeter  far  than  whirlwinds  go, 

Or  for  service,  or  delight, 

Hearts  to  hearts  their  meaning  show, 

Sum  their  long  experience, 

And  import  intelligence. 

Single  look  has  drained  the  breast ; 

Single  moment  years  confessed. 

The  duration  of  a  glance 

Is  the  term  of  convenance, 

And,  though  thy  rede  be  church  or  state,*      / 

Frugal  multiples  of  that. 

Speeding  Saturn  cannot  halt ; 

Linger,  —  thou  shalt  rue  the  fault : 

If  Love  his  moment  overstay, 

Hatred's  swift  repulsions  play. 

EMERSON. 


TO   ALTHEA. 

WHEN  love  with  unconfined  wings 

Hovers  within  my  gates, 
And  my  divine  Althea  brings 

To  whisper  at  my  grates ; 
When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair, 

And  fettered  to  her  eye, 
The  birds  that  wanton  in  the  air 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage ; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  a  hermitage  : 


620  THE  LAND   O'    THE  LEAL. 

If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love, 
And  in  my  soul  am  free,  — 

Angels  alone  that  soar  above 
Enjoy  such  liberty. 

SIB  RICHARD   LOVELACE. 


THE   LAND   O'   THE   LEAL. 

I  'M  wearin'  awa',  Jean, 
Like  snaw  in  a  thaw,  Jean  ; 
I  'm  wearin'  awa' 

To  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 
There 's  nae  sorrow  there,  Jean, 
There 's  neither  cauld  nor  care,  Jean  ; 
The  day  is  ever  'fair 

In  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 

You  've  been  leal  and  true,  Jean, 
Your  task  is  ended  noo,  Jean, 
And  I  '11  welcome  you 

To  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 
Then  dry  that  tearf u'  ee,  Jean ; 
My  soul  langs  to  be  free,  Jean  ; 
And  angels  wait  on  me 

To  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 

Our  bonnie  bairn 's  there,  Jean  ; 
She  was  baith  gude  and  fair,  Jean, 
And  we  grudged  her  sair 

To  the  Land  o'  the  Leal ! 
But  sorrow's  self  wears  past,  Jean, 
And  joy 's  a  comin'  fast,  Jean,  — 
The  joy  that 's  aye  to  last 

In  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 


WHOM  I  LOVE.  621 

A  our  friends  are  gane,  Jean  ; 
We  Ve  lang  been  left  alane,  Jean ; 
But  we  '11  a'  meet  again 

In  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 
Now  fare  ye  weel,  my  ain  Jean  ! 
This  world's  care  is  vain,  Jean ! 
We  '11  meet,  and  aye  be  fain 

In  the  Land  o'  the  Leal. 

LADY  CAROLINE  NAIRN. 


WHOM   I   LOVE. 

SHALL  I  tell  you  whom  I  love  ? 

Hearken  then  awhile  to  me ; 
And  if  such  a  woman  move 

As  I  now  shall  versify, 
Be  assured,  't  is  she,  or  none, 
That  I  love,  and  love  alone. 

Nature  did  her  so  much  right, 
As  she  scorns  the  help  of  art, 

In  as  many  virtues  dight 

As  e'er  yet  embraced  a  heart. 

So  much  good  so  truly  tried, 

Some  for  less  were  deified. 

Wit  she  hath,  without  desire 

To  make  known  how  much  she  hath 
And  her  anger  flames  no  higher 

Than  may  fitly  sweeten  wrath. 
Full  of  pity  as  may  be, 
Though  perhaps  not  so  to  me. 


622  A    WOMAN'S  IDEAL. 

Reason  masters  every  sense, 

And  her  virtues  grace  her  birth : 

Lovely  as  all  excellence,  , 

Modest  in  her  most  of  mirth : 

Likelihood  enough  to  prove 

Only  worth  could  kindle  love. 

Such  she  is  ;  and  if  you  know 
Such  a  one  as  I  have  sung,  — 

Be  she  brown,  or  fair,  or  so, 

That  she  be  but  somewhile  young,  — 

Be  assured,  't  is  she,  or  none, 

That  I  love,  and  love  alone. 

WILLIAM  BROWNE. 


A   WOMAN'S   IDEAL. 

A    PAKODY. 

WHOE'ER  he  be, 

That  not  Impossible  He, 

To  be  hereafter  lord  of  me, 

Though  he  now  lie 
Where  mortal  naked  eye 
Cannot  his  shape  descry, 

I  do  believe  that  he, 

Most  verily, 

In  flesh  and  blood  doth  wait  for  me. 

I  wishjiim  beauty, 

That  owes  not  all  its  duty 

To  arts  of  dress,  —  pins,  rings,  or  blue  tie ; 


A    WOMAN'S  IDEAL.  623 

Something  more  than 
Hats  or  blacking  can, 
Which  make  the  fop,  and  not  the  man ; 

An  eye  that 's  bright 

With  youth's  own  eagle  light, 

And  needs  no  "  glass  "  for  sight ; 

A  stately  form  and  tall, 
Highest  in  field  and  hall, 
As  was  of  old  King  Saul ; 

Standing  among  men,  proud, 
With  a  free  step,  uncowed, 
With  a  high  head,  unbowed ; 

Tender  to  woman's  tears, 

Pity  for  maiden's  fears, 

Kind  words  for  children's  ears  ; 

• 

A  true  heart  and  clear  head, 
Yet  not  all  Euclid-bred, 
Or  on  stale  classics  fed ; 

One  who  can  ride  to  hounds, 

And  loveth  sylvan  sounds, 

But  is  not  "  horsy  "  without  bounds ; 

One  who  can  steer  and  scull, 
A  "  biceps  "  that  can  pull 
Up-stream  a  whole  boat-full ; 

Yet  with  a  soul  and  parts 
For  finer,  gentler  arts, 
That  live  in  noble  hearts  ; 


624  HOW   SHALL  I   WOO  f 

One  who  can  rise  and  sing, 
When  maidens  wake  the  string, 
And  softest  cadence  fling ; 

A  fair,  good  name, 
Perhaps  no  renown  or  fame, 
At  least  no  taint  of  shame  ; 

A  manly  grace, 

That  looks  you  in  the  face 

And  owns  to  no  disgrace. 

Now,  if  Time  knows 

This  Him,  for  whose  high  brows 

There  waits  my  wreath  of  vows, 

He  that  dares  be 

What  these  lines  wish  to  see, 

I  seek  no  further,  —  it  is  he  ! 

ANONYMOUS. 


HOW   SHALL   I   WOO? 

IF  I  speak  to  thee  in  friendship's  name, 

Thou  think' st  I  speak  too  coldly ; 
If  I  mention  love's  devoted  flame, 

Thou  say'st  I  speak  too  boldly. 
Between  these  two  unequal  fires, 

Why  doom  me  thus  to  hover  ? 
I  'm  a  friend,  if  such  thy  heart  requires  ; 

If  more  thou  seek'st,  a  lover. 
Which  shall  it  be  ?     How  shall  I  woo  ? 

Fair  one,  choose  between  the  two. 


HE    THAT  LOVES  A   ROSY  CHEEK.  625 

Though  the  wings  of  Love  will  brightly  play, 

When  first  he  comes  to  woo  thee, 
There  's  a  chance  that  he  may  fly  away 

As  fast  as  he  flies  to  thee. 
While  Friendship,  though  on  foot  she  come, 

No  flights  of  fancy  trying, 
Will  therefore  oft  be  found  at  home, 

When  Love  abroad  is  flying.  ,. 

Which  shall  it  be  ?     How  shall  I  woo  ? 

Dear  one,  choose  between  the  two. 

If  neither  feeling  suits  thy  heart, 

Let 's  see,  to  please  thee,  whether 
We  may  not  learn  some  precious  art 

To  mix  their  charms  together. 
One  feeling,  still  more  sweet,  to  form 

From  two  so  sweet  already,  — 
A  friendship  that  like  love  is  warm, 

A  love  like  friendship  steady. 
Thus  let  it  be,  thus  let  me  woo ; 

Dearest,  thus  we  '11  join  the  two. 

MOORE. 


HE   THAT   LOVES   A   ROSY   CHEEK. 

HE  that  loves  a  rosy  cheek, 

Or  a  coral  lip  admires, 
Or  from  starlike  eyes  doth  seek 

Fuel  to  maintain  his  fires  ; 
As  old  Time  makes  these  decay, 
So  his  flames  must  waste  away. 

But  a  smooth  and  steadfast  mind, 
Gentle  thoughts,  and  calm  desires, 
40 


626  THE  APOLOGY. 


Hearts  with  equal  love  combined, 

Kindle  never-dying  fires  ;  — 
Where  these  are  not,  I  despise 
Lovely  cheeks  or  lips  or  eyes. 

THOMAS  CAREW. 


THE  APOLOGY. 

THINK  me  not  unkind  and  rude, 

That  I  walk  alone  in  grove  and  glen  : 

I  go  to  the  god  of  the  wood 
To  fetch  his  word  to  men. 

Tax  not  my  sloth  that  I 

Fold  my  arms  beside  the  brook ; 
Each  cloud  that  floated  in  the  sky 

Writes  a.  letter  in  my  book. 

Chide  me  not,  laborious  band, 

For  the  idle  flowers  I  brought ; 
Every  aster  in  my  hand 

Goes  home  loaded  with  a  thought. 

There  was  never  mystery 

But 't  is  figured  in  the  flowers ; 
Was  never  secret  history 

But  birds  tell  it  in  the  bowers. 

One  harvest  from  thy  field 

Homeward  brought  the  oxen  strong ; 
A  second  crop  thy  acres  yield, 

Which  I  gather  in  a  song. 

EMERSON. 


LUCY  ASHTON'S  SONG.  627 


THINE  EYES   STILL  SHONE. 

THINE  eyes  still  shone  for  me,  though  far 

I  lonely  roved  the  land  or  sea  ; 
As  I  behold  yon  evening  star, 

Which  yet  beholds  not  me. 

This  morn  I  climbed  the  misty  hill, 
And  roamed  the  pastures  through  ; 

How  danced  thy  form  before  my  path 
Amidst  the  deep-eyed  dew ! 

When  the  redbird  spread  his  sable  wing, 

And  showed  his  side  of  flame,  — 
When  the  rosebud  ripened  to  the  rose,  — 

In  both  I  read  thy  name. 

EMERSON. 


LUCY  ASHTON'S   SONG. 

LOOK  not  thou  on  beauty's  charming, 
Sit  thou  still  when  kings  are  arming  ; 
Taste  not  when  the  wine-cup  glistens, 
Speak  not  when  the  people  listens  ; 
Stop  thine  ear  against  the  singer, 
From  the  red  gold  keep  thy  finger : 
Vacant  heart  and  hand  and  eye, 
Easy  live  and  quiet  die. 

SCOTT,  Bride  of  Lammermoor. 


628  GIVE  ALL    TO   LOVE. 


THE   SIKENS'   SONG. 

STEER  hither,  steer  your  winged  pines, 

All  beaten  mariners : 
Here  lie  undiscovered  mines, 

A  prey  to  passengers ; 
Perfumes  far  sweeter  than  the  best 
That  make  the  phoenix  urn  and  nest. 

Fear  not  your  ships, 
Nor  any  to  oppose  you  save  our  lips ; 

But  come  on  shore, 
Where  no  joy  dies  till  love  has  gotten  more. 

For  swelling  waves  our  panting  breasts, 

Where  never  storms  arise, 
Exchange,  and  be  awhile  our  guests  ; 

For  stars,  gaze  on  our  eyes. 
The  compass  love  shall  hourly  sing  ; 
And  as  he  goes  about  the  ring, 

We  will  not  miss 
To  tell  each  point  he  nameth  with  a  kiss. 

WILLIAM  BROWNE. 


GIVE  ALL  TO   LOVE. 

GIVE  all  to  love ; 

Obey  thy  heart ; 

Friends,  kindred,  days, 

Estate,  good-fame, 

Plans,  credit,  and  the  Muse,  — 

Nothing  refuse. 


GIVE  ALL    TO  LOVE.  629 

'T  is  a  brave  master ; 

Let  it  have  scope : 

Follow  it  utterly, 

Hope  beyond  hope  : 

High  and  more  high 

It  dives  into  noon, 

With  wing  unspent,  • 

Untold  intent ; 

But  it  is  a  god, 

Knows  its  own  path, 

And  the  outlets  of  the  sky. 

It  was  not  for  the  mean ; 
It  requireth  courage  stout. 
Souls  above  doubt, 
Valor  unbending, 
Such  't  will  reward,  — 
They  shall  return 
More  than  they  were, 
And  ever  ascending. 

Leave  all  for  love ; 

Yet,  hear  me,  yet, 

One  word  more  thy  heart  behoved, 

One  pulse  more  of  firm  endeavor,  — 

Keep  thee  to-day, 

To-morrow,  forever, 

Free  as  an  Arab 

Of  thy  beloved. 

Cling  with  life  to  the  maid; 
But  when  the  surprise, 
First  vague  shadow  of  surmise, 
Flits  across  her  bosom  young, 


630  "  KEARSARGE: 


Of  a  joy  apart  from  thee, 

Free  be  she,  fancy-free ; 

Nor  thou  detain  her  vesture's  hem, 

Nor  the  palest  rose  she  flung 

From  her  summer  diadem. 

Though  thou  loved  her  as  thyself, 

As  a  self  of  purer  clay, 

Though  her  parting  dims  the  day, 

Stealing  grace  from  all  alive ; 

Heartily  know, 

When  half  gods  go, 

The  gods  arrive. 

EMEUSON. 


"  KEARSARGE." 

On  Sunday  morning,  June  19,  1864,  the  noise  of  the  cannons  during  the  fight 
between  the  "  Kearsarge  "  and  the  "  Alabama  "  was  heard  in  English  churches  near 
the  Channel. 

SUNDAY  in  Old  England : 

In  gray  churches  everywhere 
The  calm  of  low  responses, 

The  sacred  hush  of  prayer. 

Sunday  in  Old  England ; 

And  summer  winds  that  went 
O'er  the  pleasant  fields  of  Sussex, 

The  garden  lands  of  Kent, 

Stole  into  dim  church  windows, 

And  passed  the  oaken  door, 
And  fluttered  open  prayer-books 

With  the  cannon's  awful  roar. 


THE   QUAKER   GRAVEYARD.  631 

Sunday  in  New  England : 

Upon  a  mountain  gray 
The  wind-bent  pines  are  swaying 

Like  giants  at  their  play; 

Across  the  barren  lowlands, 

Where  men  find  scanty  food, 
The  north-wind  brings  its  vigor 

To  homesteads  plain  and  rude. 

Ho,  land  of  pine  and  granite ! 

Ho,  hardy  northland  breeze  ! 
Well  have  you  trained  the  manhood 

That  shook  the  Channel  seas, 

When  o'er  those  storied  waters 

The  iron  war-bolts  flew, 
And  through  Old  England's  churches 

The  summer  breezes  blew ; 

While  in  our  other  England 

Stirred  one  gaunt  rocky  steep, 
When  rode  her  sons  as  victors, 

Lords  of  the  lonely  deep. 

S.  WEIR  MITCHELL,  M.D. 


Author's  favorite. 


THE   QUAKEE   GKAVEYABI). 

FOUR  straight  brick  walls,  severely  plain, 
A  quiet  city  square  surround  ; 

A  level  space  of  nan;eless  graves,  — 
The  Quakers'  burial-ground. 


632  EPITAPH  ON  MRS.  MASON. 

If  gown  of  gray,  or  coat  of  drab, 
They  trod  the  common  ways  of  life, 

With  passions  held  in  sternest  leash, 
And  hearts  that  knew  not  strife. 

To  yon  grim  meeting-house  they  fared, 
With  thoughts  as  sober  as  their  speech, 

To  voiceless  prayer,  to  songless  praise, 
To  hear  their  elders  preach. 

Through  quiet  lengths  of  days  they  came, 
With  scarce  a  change  to  this  repose ; 

Of  all  life's  loveliness  they  took 
The  thorn  without  the  rose. 

But  in  the  porch  and  o'er  the  graves 
Glad  rings  the  southward  robin's  glee, 

And  sparrows  fill  the  autumn  air 
With  merry  mutiny ; 

While  on  the  graves  of  drab  and  gray 

The  red  and  gold  of  autumn  lie, 
And  wilful  Nature  decks  the  sod 

In  gentlest  mockery. 

S.  WEIR  MITCHELL,  M.D. 


EPITAPH  ON  MES.  MASON   IN  THE  CATHEDPtAL 
OF   BEISTOL. 

TAKE,  holy  earth,  all  that  my  soul  holds  dear ; 

Take  that  best  gift  which  heaven  so  lately  gave : 
To  Bristol's  font  I  bore  with  trembling  care 

Her  faded  form ;  she  bowed  to  taste  the  wave, 
And  died  !     Does  youth,  does  beauty,  read  the  line  ? 

Does  sympathetic  fear  their  breasts  alarm  ? 


THE  DESERTED    VILLAGE.  633 

Speak,  dead  Maria !  breathe  a  strain  divine ; 

Even  from  the  grave  thou  shalt  have  power  to  charm. 
Bid  them  be  chaste,  be  innocent,  like  thee : 

Bid  them  in  duty's  sphere  as  meekly  move ; 
And  if  so  fair,  from  vanity  as  free, 

As  firm  in  friendship,  and  as  fond  in  love, — 
Tell  them,  though  't  is  an  awful  thing  to  die 

('T  was  even  to  thee),  yet,  the  dread  path  once  trod, 
Heaven  lifts  its  everlasting  portals  high, 

And  bids  "  the  pure  in  heart  behold  their  God." 

WILLIAM  MASON. 


THE   DESEKTED   VILLAGE. 

BESIDE  yon  straggling  fence  that  skirts  the  way, 
With  blossomed  furze  unprofitably  gay, 
There,  in  his  noisy  mansion,  skilled  to  rule, 
The  village  master  taught  his  little  school. 
A  man  severe  he  was,  and  stern  to  view  — 
I  knew  him  well,  and  every  truant  knew  ; 
Well  had  the  boding  tremblers  learned  to  trace 
The  day's  disasters  in  his  morning  face  ; 
Full  well  they  laughed,  with  counterfeited  glee, 
At  all  his  jokes,  for  many  a  joke  had  he  : 
Full  well  the  busy  whisper,  circling  round, 
Conveyed  the  dismal  tidings  when  he  frowned ; 
Yet  he  was  kind  —  or,  if  severe  in  aught, 
The  love  he  bore  to  learning  was  in  fault. 
The  village  all  declared  how  much  he  knew  : 
'T  was  certain  he  could  write  and  cipher  too ; 
Lands  he  could  measure,  terms  and  tides  presage, 
And  e'en  the  story  ran  that  he  could  gauge. 


634  THE  BIBLE. 

In  arguing,  too,  the  parson  owned  his  skill, 
For,  e'en  though  vanquished,  he  could  argue  still ; 
While  words  of  learned  length  and  thundering  sound 
Amazed  the  gazing  rustics  ranged  around  ; 
And  still  they  gazed,  and  still  the  wonder  grew, 
That  one  small  head  could  carry  all  he  knew. 
But  past  is  all  his  fame ;  the  very  spot, 
Where  many  a  time  he  triumphed,  is  forgot. 

GOLDSMITH. 

FROM   ALL  THAT   DWELL   BELOW   THE   SKIES. 

FROM  all  that  dwell  below  the  skies 
Let  the  Creator's  praise  arise ; 
Let  the  Redeemer's  name  be  sung 
Through  every  land,  by  every  tongue. 

Eternal  are  thy  mercies,  Lord  ; 

Eternal  truth  attends  thy  word  : 

Thy  praise  shall  sound  from  shore  to  shore, 

Till  suns  shall  set  and  rise  no  more. 

WATTS. 

THE   BIBLE. 

WITHIN  this  awful  volume  lies 
The  mystery  of  mysteries  ; 
Happiest  those  of  human  race, 
To  whom  God  has  granted  grace 
To  read,  to  fear,  to  hope,  to  pray, 
To  lift  the  latch  and  force  the  way ; 
And  better  had  they  ne'er  been  born, 
Who  read  to  doubt,  or  read  to  scorn. 

SCOTT,  Tlie  Monastery. 


CALM  ON  THE  LISTENING  EAR   OF  NIGHT.      635 


CALM   ON   THE   LISTENING  EAE   OF  NIGHT. 

CALM  on  the  listening  ear  of  night 
Come  Heaven's 'melodious  strains, 

Where  wild  Judaea  stretches  far 
Her  silver-mantled  plains ! 

Celestial  choirs,  from  courts  above, 

Shed  sacred  glories  there ; 
And  angels,  with  their  sparkling  lyres, 

Make  music  on  the  air. 

The  answering  hills  of  Palestine 

Send  back  the  glad  reply ; 
And  greet,  from  all  their  holy  heights, 

The  dayspring  from  on  high. 

On  the  blue  depths  of  Galilee 

There  comes  a  holier  calm, 
And  Sharon  waves,  in  solemn  praise, 

Her  silent  groves  of  palm. 

"  Glory  to  God  !  "  the  sounding  skies 

Loud  with  their  anthems  ring  ; 
Peace  to. the  earth,  good-will  to  men, 

From  Heaven's  Eternal  King  ! 

Light  on  thy  hills,  Jerusalem  ! 

The  Saviour  now  is  born  ! 
And  bright  on  Bethlehem's  joyous  plains 

Breaks  the  first  Christmas  morn. 

E.  H.  SEARS. 


636  THE   IVY  GREEN. 


COME,   YE  DISCONSOLATE. 

,  ye  disconsolate,  where'er  ye  languish  ; 
Come,  at  the  mercy-seat  fervently  kneel. 
Here  bring  your  wounded  hearts,  here  tell  your  anguish  ; 
Earth  has  no  sorrow  that  Heaven  cannot  heal. 

Joy  of  the  desolate,  light  of  the  straying, 

Hope  of  the  penitent,  fadeless  and  pure, 
Here  speaks  the  Comforter,  tenderly  saying, 

Earth  has  no  sorrow  that  Heaven  cannot  cure. 

Here  see  the  bread  of  life  ;  see  waters  flowing 
Forth  from  the  throne  of  God,  pure  from  above. 

Come  to  the  feast  of  love  ;  come  ever  knowing 
Earth  has  no  sorrow  but  Heaven  can  remove. 

MOORE. 
Head  of  the  river,  autumn  of  1833. 


THE   IVY   GREEN. 

OH  !  a  dainty  plant  is  the  Ivy  green, 

That  creepeth  o'er  ruins  old  ! 
Of  right  choice  food  are  his  meals,  I  ween, 

In  his  cell  so  lone  and  cold. 
The  walls  must  be  crumbled,  the  stones  decayed, 

To  pleasure  his  dainty  whim ; 
And  the  mouldering  dust  that  years  have  made 

Is  a  merry  meal  for  him. 

Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 


A    FOREST  HYMN.  637 

Fast  he  stealeth  on,  though  he  wears  no  wings, 

And  a  stanch  old  heart  has  he ! 
How  closely  he  twineth,  how  tight  he  clings 

To  his  friend,  the  huge  oak-tree  ! 
And  slyly  he  traileth  along  the  ground, 

And  his  leaves  he  gently  waves, 
And  he  joyously  twines  and  hugs  around 

The  rich  mould  of  dead  men's  graves. 
Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 
A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 

Whole  ages  have  fled,  and  their  works  decayed, 

And  nations  scattered  been  ; 
But  the  stout  old  Ivy  shall  never  fade 

From  its  hale  and  hearty  green. 
The  brave  old  plant  in  its  lonely  days 

Shall  fatten  upon  the  past ; 
For  the  stateliest  building  man  can  raise 

Is  the  Ivy's  food  at  last. 

Creeping  where  no  life  is  seen, 

A  rare  old  plant  is  the  Ivy  green. 

DICKENS. 


A   FOREST   HYMN. 

THE  groves  were  God's  first  temples.     Ere  man  learned 

To  hew  the  shaft,  and  lay  the  architrave, 

And  spread  the  roof  above  them,  —  ere  he  framed 

The  lofty  vault,  to  gather  and  roll  back 

The  sound  of  anthems,  —  in  the  darkling  wood, 

Amid  the  cool  and  silence,  he  knelt  down, 

And  offered  to  the  Mightiest  solemn  thanks 

And  supplication.     For  his  simple  heart 

Might  not  resist  the  sacred  influences 


638  REPROACH. 

Which,  from  the  stilly  twilight  of  the  place, 

And  from  the  gray  old  trunks  that  high  in  heaven 

Mingled  their  mossy  boughs,  and  from  the  sound 

Of  the  invisible  breath  that  swayed  at  once ' 

All  their  green  tops,  stole  over  him,  and  bowed 

His  spirit  with  the  thought  of  boundless  power 

And  inaccessible  majesty.     Ah,  why 

Should  we,  in  the  world's  riper  years,  neglect 

God's  ancient  sanctuaries,  and  adore 

Only  among  the  crowd,  and  under  roofs 

That  our  frail  hands  have  raised  ?     Let  me,  at  least, 

Here,  in  the  shadow  of  this  aged  wood, 

Offer  one  hymn,  —  thrice  happy,  if  it  find 

Acceptance  in  His  ear. 


BRYANT. 


EEPEOACH. 

FIERCE  the  sea  is,  and  fickle  if  fair,  — 

So  they  say  of  it,  so  let  it  be ; 

But  did  ever  the  landsman's  languor  check 

The  sailor's  pride  in  his  dancing  deck  ? 

Or  did  ever  the  helmsman,  whose  home  is  there, 

In  place  of  his  own  true  hand  and  eye, 

Trust  the  ploughman's  skill  when  the  sea  ran  high, 

And  submit  to  a  landsman's  usurpature  ? 
No !  for  the  seaman  loveth  the  sea, 
And  knoweth  its  nature. 

Perils  there  are  on  the  mountain  peak, 
When  headlong  tumble  the  turbulent  rills ; 
But  did  ever  the  lowland  shepherd's  fear 
Daunt  the  heart  of  the  mountaineer  ? 


REPROACH.  639 

Or  did  ever  the  hill-born  hunter  seek, 

When  the  snowdrift  sweeping  the  mountain  side 

Flew  fast  and  fierce,  for  a  lowland  guide 

To  track  the  path  of  a  mountain  creature  ? 
No  !  for  the  hunter  loveth  the  hills 
And  knoweth  their  nature. 

Then  to  whom  shall  the  sailor  for  counsel  go 

Through  the  violent  waters  his  bark  to  steer  ? 
And  what  through  the  ice  and  the  falling  snow 

May  guide  the  foot  of  the  mountaineer  ? 
Hath  the  hunter  heed  to  the  pastoral  trills 

Which  the  shepherd  pipes  to  his  flock  on  the  lea  ? 
Or  the  sailor  faith  in  the  fear  that  fills 

The  landsman's  babbling  prate  ?     Not  he !  ' 
For  the  heights  and  the  depths  have  their  ways  and  wills, 

Which  they  must  know  who  their  lords  would  be ; 
And  the  highlander  studies  and  trusts  the  hills, 

As  the  mariner  studies  and  trusts  the  sea. 

But,  0  my  love !  I  am  thine  in  vain, 

If  thou  trustest  me  not ;  and,  oh,  why  hast  thou  ta'en 

Counsel  not  with  my  nature,  nor'  thine, 

How  a  woman  should  deal  with  this  heart  of  mine  ? 

The  sailor  the  sea  doth  trust, 

And  the  hunter  the  hills  —  but  thou  ! 

Thou,  who  hast  known  me,  dost 

Trust  those  that  I  scorn  to  know, 
For  the  knowledge  of  me,  who  have  been  thine  own 
In  vain,  if  by  thee  I  be  still  unknown. 

ANONYMOUS. 
Eeceived  from  R.  L. 


640  WALDEINSAMKEIT. 


WALDEINSAMKEIT. 

I  DO  not  count  the  hours  I  spend 

In  wandering  by  the  sea ; 
The  forest  is  my  loyal  friend, 

Like  God  it  useth  me. 

In  plains  that  room  for  shadows  make 

Of  skirting  hills  to  lie, 
Bound  hi  by  streams  which  give  and  take 

Their  colors  from  the  sky  ; 

Or  on  the  mountain-crest  sublime, 

Or  down  the  oaken  glade, 
Oh,  what  have  I  to  do  with  time  ? 

For  this  the  day  was  made. 

Cities  of  mortals  woe-begone 

Fantastic  care  derides, 
But  in  the  serious  landscape  lone 

Stern  benefit  abides. 

Sheen  will  tarnish,  honey  cloy, 
And  merry  is  only  a  mask  of  sad ; 

But,  sober  on  a  fund  of  joy, 
The  woods  at  heart  are  glad. 

There  the  great  Planter  plants 

Of  fruitful  worlds  the  grain, 
And  with  a  million  spells  enchants 

The  souls  that  walk  in  pain. 

Still  on  the  seeds  of  all  he  made 

The  rose  of  beauty  burns  ; 
Through  times  that  wear,  and  forms  that  fade, 

Immortal  youth  returns. 


THE  LANGUAGE   OF  FLOWERS.  641 

The  black  ducks  mounting  from  the  lake, 

The  pigeon  in  the  pines, 
The  bittern's  boom,  a  desert  make 

Which  no  false  art  refines. 

Down  in  yon  watery  nook,  , 

Where  bearded  mists  divide, 
The  gray  old  gods  whom  Chaos  knew, 

The  sires  of  Nature,  hide. 

Aloft,  in  secret  veins  of  air, 

Blows  the  sweet  breath  of  song ; 
Oh,  few  to  scale  those  uplands  dare, 

Though  they  to  all  belong  ! 

/ 

See  thou  bring  not  to  field  or  stone 

The  fancies  found  in  books  ; 
Leave  author's  eyes,  and  fetch  your  own, 

To  brave  the  landscape's  looks. 

Oblivion  here  thy  wisdom  is  ; 

Thy  thrift,  the  sleep  of  cares  : 
For  a  proud  idleness  like  this 
Crowns  all  thy  mean  affairs. 

EMERSON. 

Mr.   EMERSON  wrote  this  with  his  own  hand  in  the  "  Island  Book  "  :  perhaps 
it  was  suggested  by  the  surroundings.    ' 


THE   LANGUAGE   OF  FLOWERS. 

IN  Eastern  lands  they  talk  in  flowers, 

And  they  tell  in  a  garland  their  loves  and  cares  ; 
Each  blossom  that  blooms  in  their  garden  bowers 

On  its  leaves  a  mystic  language  bears. 

41 


642  A   HEALTH   TO    THE   OUTWARD  BOUND. 

The  rose  is  the  sign  of  joy  and  love,  — 

Young,  blushing  love  in  its  earliest  dawn  ; 
And  the  mildness  that  suits  the  gentle  dove 

From  the  .myrtle's  snowy  flower  is  drawn. 
Innocence  shines  in  the  lily's  bell, 

Pure  as  a  heart  in  its  native  heaven ; 
Fame's  bright  star,  and  glory's  swell, 

By  the  glossy  leaf  of  the  bay  are  given. 
The  silent,  soft,  and  humble  heart 

In  the  violet's  hidden  sweetness  breathes ; 
And  the  tender  soul  that  cannot  part, 

A  twine  of  evergreen  fondly  wreathes. 
The  cypress,  that  darkly  shades  the  grave, 

Is  sorrow,  that  mourns  her  bitter  lot ; 
And  faith,  that  a  thousand  ills  can  brave, 

Speaks  in  thy  blue  leaves,  forget-me-not. 

Then  gather  a  wreath  from  the  garden  bowers, 
And  tell  the  wish  of  thy  heart  in  flowers. 

PERCIVAL. 


A  HEALTH  TO  THE  OUTWAED  BOUND. 

FILL,  fill  the  sparkling  brimmer  ! 

Fill !  for  the  moments  fly ; 
The  stars'  weary  light  grows  dimmer, 

And  the  moon  fades  away  from  the  sky. 
Fill !  for  the  signal-flag  is  up, 

And  the  wind  is  veering  round ; 
In  haste  let  us  pledge  our  parting  cup 

To  the  health  of  the  outward  bound ! 

Fill  high !  this  hour  to-morrow 
Nor  toast  nor  jest  shall  be  ; 


MAIDEN  SPEECH  OF   THE  AEOLIAN  HARP.       643 

But  a  few  shall  meet  in  sorrow, 

While  the  many  plough  the  sea. 
Then,  while  we  're  all  together, 

Give  the  toast,  let  it  circle  round : 
Full  sails  and  prosperous  weather, 

And  a  health  to  the  outward  bound ! 

Let  no  adieu  be  spoken,  — 

To  weep  is  a  woman's  part ; 
Nor  give  we  a  farewell  token, 

But  a  health  from  our  inmost  heart ! 
Oft,  when  the  wind  blows  free, 

And  the  rough  waves  roll  around, 
The  health  shall  come  back  to  their  memory 

That  we  drank  to  the  outward  bound ! 

CAROLINE  NORTON. 
Sung  by  J.  A.  and  W.  M.  H. 


MAIDEN    SPEECH   OF    THE    AEOLIAN    HARP. 

SOFT  and  softlier  hold  me,  friends  ! 

Thanks  if  your  genial  care 

Unbind  and  give  me  to  the  air. 

Keep  your  lips  or  finger-tips 

For  flute  or  spinnet's  dancing  chips ; 

I  await  a  tenderer  touch,  — 

I  ask  more  or  not  so  much. 

Give  me  to  the  atmosphere,  — 

Where  is  the  wind,  my  brother,  where  ? 

Lift  the  sash,  lay  me  within, 

Lend  me  your  ears,  and  I  begin. 

For  gentle  harp  to  gentle  hearts 

The  secret  of  the  world  imparts ; 


644  THE  LAST  LOOK. 

And  not  to-day  and  not  to-morrow 

Can  drain  its  wealth  of  hope  and  sorrow, 

But  day  by  day,  to  loving  ear, 

Unlocks  new  sense  and  loftier  cheer. 

I  've  come  to  live  with  you,  sweet  friends ; 

This  home  my  minstrel  journeying  ends. 

Many  and  subtle  are  my  lays, 

The  latest  better  than  the  first ; 

For  I  can  mend  the  happiest  days, 

And  charm  the  anguish  of  the  worst. 

EMERSON. 
Written  on  presenting  an  Jiolian  harp  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  W.  H.  F. 


THE   LAST   LOOK. 

W.   W.    SWAIN. 

BEHOLD  —  not  him  we  knew : 

This  was  the  prison  which  his  soul  looked  through, 
Tender  and  brave  and  true. 

His  voice  no  more  is  heard ; 
And  his  dead  name  —  that  dear  familiar  word  — 
Lies  on  our  lips  unstirred. 

He  spake  with  poet's  tongue ; 
Living,  for  him  the  minstrel's  lyre  was  strung : 
He  shall  not  die  unsung. 

Grief  tried  his  love,  and  pain ; 
And  the  long  bondage  of  his  martyr-chain 
Vexed  his  sweet  soul  —  in  vain  ! 


THE  LAST  LOOK.    .  645 

i 

It  felt  life's  surges  break, 
As,  girt  with  stormy  seas,  his  island  lake, 
Smiling  while  tempests  wake. 

How  can  we  sorrow  more  ? 
Grieve  not  for  him  whose  heart  had  gone  before 
To  that  untrodden  shore ! 

Lo  !  through  its  leafy  screen 
A  gleam  of  sunlight  on  a  ring  of  green, 
Untrodden,  half  unseen ! 

Here  let  his  body  rest, 

Where  the  calm  shadows  that  his  soul  loved  best 
May  slide  above  his  breast. 

Smooth  his  uncurtained  bed ; 
And  if  some  natural  tears  are  softly  shed, 
It  is  not  for  the  dead. 

; 

Fold  the  green  turf  aright 
For  the  long  hours  before  the  morning's  light, 
And  say  the  last  Good  Night ! 

\ 

And  plant  a  clear  white  stone 

Close  by  those  mounds  which  hold  his  loved,  his  own, — 
Lonely,  but  not  alone  ! 

Here  let  him  sleeping  lie, 

Till  Heaven's  bright  watchers  slumber  in  the  sky, 
And  Death  himself  shall  die ! 

HOLMES. 

NAXTSHON,  Sept.  22.  1858. 


646  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  E.  P. 


TO    E.   W.    EMEESON,    ON   HIS    SEVENTIETH 
BIETHDAY. 

BLEST  of  the  highest  gods  are  they  who  die 
Ere  youth  is  fled;  for  them  their  mother  Fate, 

Clasping  from  happy  earth  to  happier  sky, 
Frees  life  and  joy  and  love  from  dread  of  date. 

But  thee,  revered  of  men,  the  gods  have  blessed 
With  fruitful  years ;  and  yet  for  thee,  in  sooth, 

Of  all  their  gifts,  they  have  reserved  the  hest, 

And  thou,  though  full  of  days,  shalt  die  in  youth. 

CHARLES  E.  NORTON. 
May  25,  1873. 


ON  THE  DEATH   OF   E.  P. 

IF  the  pilgrim  did  not  falter, 

Though  his  weary  limbs  were  sore, 
Till  he  lay  down  on  the  altar 

The  offering  that  he  bore, 
Then,  all  his  wanderings  over,  shall  we  weep 
That  wearied  out  he  lieth  in  sweet  sleep  ? 

If  the  soldier  asked  no  furlough 
Till  the  mortal  fray  was  done, 
But  battled  with  the  bravest 

Till  the  victory  was  won, 
Then,  when  he  reposeth  after  conflict  sore, 
Weep  we  that  the  war-cry  awakens  him  no  more  ? 

If  the  watchman  doth  not  linger 
By  the  fireside  bright  and  warm, 


TO  S.  S.  F.  647 


But  unclasps  the  arms  that  fold  him, 

And  braves  the  sleet  and  storm, 
Mourn  we  that  he  resteth  ?  the  long  night  o'er 
And  the  day  come,  he  breasteth  the  storm  no  more  ? 


And  when  the  good  man  di^th, 

His  faithful  service  done, 
When  over  death  a  holy  faith 

The  victory  hath  won, 

What  still  and  solemn  peace  our  hearts  should  feel, 
That  on  such  life  such  death  should  set  its  seal ! 

MARIA  W.  GORDON. 

1857. 


TO   S.  S.   F. 

WRITTEN   IN   THE   FLY-LEAF    OF   WORDSWORTH'S    POEMSx> 

WHEN  melancholy,  born  of  sin, 

Clings  close  about  me ; 
When  all  is  cold  and  dark  within^ 

And  drear  without  me ; 
When  memories  of  my  wasted  years, 

Misacted  part, 
Brim  up  my  eyes  with  bitter  tears, 

And  choke  my  heart,  — 
Then  to  these  volumes  can  I  turn, 

And  deem  them  sent 
From  Heaven ;  for  faith  and  hope  I  learn, 

And  strong  content. 
And  though,  my  cousin,  unto  thee 

Few  griefs  may  come ; 
Though  as  a  paradise  may  be 


648  TO   GOVERNOR   SWAIN. 

Thy  cottage-home ; 
Though  envy  never  can  cloud  o'er 

Thy  generous  sight, 
Nor  jealousy  stand  up  before 

Thy  simple  might,  — 
Yet  do  I  know  that  thy  pure  mind, 

In  Wordsworth's  line, 
A  kindred  excellence  will  find  ; 
For  sense,  truth,  joy,  are  here  combined 

With  love,  —  and  all  are  thine  ! 

J.  II.  PERKINS. 
BROOKLINE,  July,  1835. 


TO   GOVERNOR   SWAIN. 

DEAR  Governor,  if  my  skill  might  brave 
The  winds  that  lift  the  ocean  wave, 
The  mountain  stream  -that  loops  and  swerves 
Through  my  broad  meadow's  channelled  curves 
Should  waft  me  on  from  bound  to  bound 
To  where  the  River  weds  the  Sound, 
The  Sound  should  give  me  to  the  sea, 
That  to  the  Bay,  the  Bay  to  thee. 

It  may  not  be ;  too  long  the  track 

To  follow  down  or  struggle  back. 

The  sun  has  set  on  fair  Naushon 

Long  ere  my  western  blaze  is  gone ; 

The  ocean  disk  is  rolling  dark 

In  shadows  round  your  swinging  bark, 

While  yet  the  yellow  sunset  fills 

The  stream  that  scarfs  my  spruce-clad  hills ; 

The  day-star  wakes  your  island  deer 

Long  ere  my  barnyard  chanticleer ; 


TO   GOVERNOR   SWAIN.  649 

Your  mists  are  soaring  in  the  blue, 
While  mine  are  sparks  of  glittering  dew. 

It  may  not  be :  oh,  would  it  might ! 
Could  I  live  o'er  that  glowing  night, 
What  golden  hours  would  come  to  life, 
What  goodly  feats  of  peaceful  strife ! 
Such  jests,  that,  drained  of  every  joke, 
The  very  bank  of  language  broke ; 
Such  deeds,  that  Laughter  nearly  died 
With  stitches  in  his  belted  side ; 
While  Time,  caught  fast  in  pleasure's  chain, 
His  double  goblet  snapped  in  twain, 
And  stood  with  half  in  either  hand,  — 
Both  brimming  full  —  but  not  of  sand ! 

It  may  not  be ;  I  strive  in  vain 

To  break  my  slender  household  chain,  — 

Three  pairs  of  little  clasping  hands, 

One  voice,  that  whispers,  not  commands. 

Even  while  my  spirit  flies  away, 

My  gentle  jailers  murmur  nay. 

All  shapes  of  elemental  wrath 

They  raise  along  my  threatened  path ; 

The  storm  grows  black,  the  waters  rise, 

The  mountains  mingle  with  the  skies, 

The  mad  tornado  scoops  the  ground, 

The  midnight  robber  prowls  around,  — 

Thus,  kissing  every  limb  they  tie, 

They  draw  a  knot  and  heave  a  sigh, 

Till,  fairly  netted  in  the  toil, 

My  feet  are  rooted  to  the  soil. 

Only  the  soaring  wish  is  free, 

And  that,  dear  Governor,  flies  to  thee  ! 

HOLMES. 

PlTTSFIELD,   1851. 


650  A   FRAGMENT. 


WILT   THOU   TEMPT   THE  WAVES   WITH   ME? 

WILT  thou  tempt  the  waves  with  me, 

When  the  moon  is  high  and  bright, 
And  the  ocean  seems  to  be 

A  pillow  for  her  light  ? 
Stars  will  shine  above  us  cheerily, 

As  we  glide  along, 
Whilst  the  rippling  waters  echo  merrily 

To  the  mariner's  song. 

Wilt  thou  wander  through  the  dells, 
Where  our  bower  of  beauty  stands, 

And  the  little  silver  bells 
Are  rung  by  fairy  hands  ? 

Stars  will  shine,  &c. 

ANONYMOUS. 
Miss  HELEN  DAVIS'S  song. 


A   FKAGMENT. 

COME  take  the  harp,  my  gentle  one, 
And  let  its  notes  be  soft  and  low; 

Such  as  may  breathe,  in  every  tone, 
The  soul  of  long  ago. 

.    Then  take  the  harp,  and  let  it  wile 

All  thoughts  of  care  and  grief  away ; 
While  thou  art  by  with  harp  and  smile, 

I  will  not  weep  to-day. 

ANONYMOUS. 

Sung  by  J.  A.  and  W.  M.  H. 


KEEN  AN' S   CHARGE.  651 

KEENAN'S   CHARGE. 

CHANCELLOKSVILLE,  MAY,    1863. 
I. 

THE  sun  had  set; 

The  leaves  with  dew  were  wet ; 

Down  fell  a  bloody  dusk 

On  the  woods,  that  second  of  May, 

Where  Stonewall's  corps,  like  a  beast  of  prey, 

Tore  through,  with  angry  tusk. 

"  They  Ve  trapped  us,  boys  ! "  — 
Rose  from  our  flank  a  voice. 
With  a  rush  of  steel  and  smoke 
On  came  the  Rebels  straight, 
Eager  as  love  and  wild  as  hate ; 
And  our  line  reeled  and  broke. 

There 's  one  hope,  still  — 
Those  batteries  parked  on  the  hill ! 
"  Battery,  wheel ! "  ('mid  the  roar) 
"  Pass  pieces ;  fix  prolonge  to  fire 
Retiring.     Trot !  "     In  the  panic  dire 
A  bugle  rings  "  Trot  "  —  and  no  more. 

"  To  wait  is  crime  ; 

0  God,  for  ten  minutes'  time  ! " 

The  general  looked  around. 

There  Keen  an  sat,  like  a  stone, 

With  his  three  hundred  horse  alone  — 

Less  shaken  than  the  ground. 


652  KEENAN'S   CHARGE. 

"  Major,  ypur  men  ? "  — 

"Are  soldiers,  General."     "Then, 

Charge,  Major !     Do  your  best : 

Hold  the  enemy  back,  at  all  cost, 

Till  my  guns  are  placed  ;  —  else  the  army  is  lost. 

You  die  to  save  the  rest ! " 


II. 


"  Cavalry,  charge  ! "     Not  a  man  of  them  shrank. 

Their  sharp,  full  cheer,  from  rank  on  rank, 

Eose  joyously,  with  a  willing  breath,  — 

Eose  like  a  greeting  hail  to  death. 

Then  forward  they  sprang,  and  spurred  and  clashed ; 

Shouted  the  officers,  crimson-sashed ; 

Eode  well  the  men,  each  brave  as  his  fellow, 

In  their  faded  coats  of  the  blue  and  yellow ; 

And  above  in  the  air,  with  an  instinct  true, 

Like  a  bird  of  war  their  pennon  flew. 

With  clank  of  scabbards  and  thunder  of  steeds, 
And  blades  that  shine  like  sunlit  reeds, 
And  strong-  brown  faces  bravely  pale 
For  fear  their  proud  attempt  shall  fail, 
Three  hundred  Pennsylvanians  close 
On  twice  ten  thousand  gallant  foes. 

Line  after  line  the  troopers  came 

To  the  edge  of  the  wood  that  was  ringed  with  flame ; 

Eode  in  and  sabred  and  shot  —  and  fell ; 

Nor  came  one  back  his  wounds  to  tell. 

And  full  in  the  midst  rose  Keenan,  tall 

In  the  gloom,  like  a  martyr  awaiting  his  fall, 

While  the  circle-stroke  of  his  sabre,  swung 

Eound  his  head,  like  a  halo  there,  luminous  hung. 


THE  LITTLE  PET  PLANT.  653 

Line  after  line  ;  ay,  whole  platoons, 
Struck  dead  in  their  saddles,  of  brave  dragoons 
By  the  maddened  horses  were  onward  borne 
And  into  the  vortex  flung,'  trampled,  and  torn, 
As  Keenan  fought  with  his  men,  side  by  side. 

So  they  rode,  till  there  were  no  more  to  ride. 

But  over  them,  lying  there,  shattered  and  mute, 
What  deep  echo  rolls  ?  —  'T  is  a  death-salute 
From  the  cannon  in  place ;  for,  heroes,  you  braved 
Your  fate  not  in  vain  :  the  army  was  saved ! 

G.  P.  LATHROP,  The  Century. 


THE   LITTLE  PET   PLANT. 

A  FLOEIST  a  sweet  little  blossom  espied, 
That  grew,  like  its  ancestors,  by  the  roadside. 
Its  perfume  was  simple,  its  colors  were  few, 
Yet  this  flower  looked  fair  in  the  spot  where  it  grew. 
The  florist  espied  it,  and  said,  "  I  '11  enchant 
The  botanical  world  with  a  sight  of  this  plant ; 
Its  leaves  shall  be  sheltered  and  carefully  nursed, 
All  the  world  shall  be  charmed,  though  I  met  with  it  first 

Under  a  hedge." 

But  when  this  little  plant  first  shook  off  the  dirt 
Of  its  own  native  hedge,  it  began  to  grow  pert, 
And  tossed  its  proud  head,  —  on  seeing  that  none 
But  exotics  were  round,  it  thought  itself  one. 
As  a  wild  flower,  all  would  have  owned  it  was  fair, 
And  praised  it,  though  handsomer  flowers  were  there  ; 


654  A    SONG   OF  OTHER  DAYS. 

But  when  it  assumes  hot-house  airs,  we  see  through 
The  false  tint  of  its  leaves,  and  suspect  that  it  grew 

Under  a  hedge. 

MORAL. 

In  the  byways  of  life,  oh,  how  many  there  are, 
Who,  being  born  under  some  fortunate  star, 
Assisted  by  beauty  or  talents,  grow  rich, 
And  bloom  in  a  hot-house  instead  of  a  ditch  : 
And  when  they  despise  not  their  own  simple  stem, 
The  honors  they  grasp  may  gain  honors  for  them  ; 
But  when,  like  this  little  plant,  they  begin  to  grow  pert, 
We  soon  trace  them  to  their  original  dirt 

Under  a  hedge. 

ANONYMOUS. 
Kindly  furnished  by  D.  L.  S.,  Swan  Island  Club,  Nov.  25,  1883. 


A   SONG   OF   OTHER  DAYS. 

As  o'er  the  glacier's  frozen  sheet 
Breathes  soft  the  Alpine  Rose, 
So,  through  life's  desert  springing  sweet, 

The  flower  of  friendship  grows  ; 
And  as,  where'er  the  roses  grow, 

Some  rain  or  dew  descends, 
'T  is  nature's  law  that  wine  should  flow 
To  wet  the  lips  of  friends. 

Then  once  again  before  we  part, 

My  empty  glass  shall  ring ; 
And  he  that  has  the  warmest  heart 
Shall  loudest  laugh  and  sing. 


A    SONG   OF  OTHER  DAYS.  655 

/ 
They  say  we  were  not  born  to  eat ; 

But  gray-haired  sages  think 
It  means,  —  Be  moderate  in  your  meat, 

And  partly  live  to  drink  ; 
For  baser  tribes  the  rivers  flow 

That  know  not  wine  or  song ; 
Man  wants  but  little  drink  below, 

But  wants  that  little  strong. 
Then  once  again,  &c. 

/ 
If  one  bright  drop  is  like  the  gem 

That  decks  a  monarch's  crown, 
One  goblet  holds  a  diadem 

Of  rubies  melted  down  ! 
A  fig  for  Csesar's  blazing  brow, 

But,  like  the  Egyptian  queen, 
Bid  each  dissolving  jewel  glow 

My  thirsty  lips  between. 
Then  once  again,  &c. 

The  Grecian's  mound,  the  Eoman's  urn, 

Are  silent  when  we  call, 
Yet  still  the  purple  grapes  return 

To  cluster  on  the  wall ; 
It  was  a  bright  Immortal's  head 

They  circled  with  the  vine, 
And  o'er  their  best  and  ,bra vest  dead 

They  poured  the  dark-red  wine. 
Then  once  again,  &c. 

Methinks  o'er  every  sparkling  glass 

Young  Eros  waves  his  wings, 
And  echoes  o'er  its  dimples  pass 

From  dead  Anacreon's  strings ; 


656  THE   GOLDEN  WEDDING. 

And,  tossing  round  its  beaded  brim 

Their  locks  of  floating  gold, 
With  bacchant  dance  and  choral  hymn 

Eeturn  the  nymphs  of  old. 
Then  once  again,  &c. 

A  welcome  then  to  joy  and  mirth, 

From  hearts  as  fresh  as  ours, 
To  scatter  o'er  the  dust  of  earth 

Their  sweetly  mingled  flowers ; 
'T  is  Wisdom's  self  the  cup  that  fills 

In  spite  of  Folly's  frown, 
And  Nature,  from  her  vine-clad  hills, 

That  rains  her  life-blood  down  ! 

Then  once  again,  &c. 

HOLMES. 
A  great  favorite  at  old  NAUSHON  hunts. 


THE   GOLDEN   WEDDING. 

Is  the  hope  bright  ?  It  should  be  so,  — 
Brighter  than  fifty  years  ago ; 
A  calmer,  purer,  holier  light, 
Than  shone  upon  the  marriage  rite. 

For  though  the  morn  should  cloudless  rise, 
Shadows  may  veil  the  noonday  skies ; 
But  near  the  close  the  parting  ray 
In  lines  of  beauty  fades  away. 

So  shines  on  earth  a  well-spent  life,  — 
The  daughter,  sister,  mother,  wife, 
Whose  all-embracing  kindness  flows 
In  sympathy  with  others'  woes ; 


THE   ARCHER.  657 

The  generous  heart  and  open  hand,  — 
A  sister  of  the  meek-eyed  band, 
Whose  bounty  smooths  the  brow  of  care 
And  bids  the  smile  displace  the  tear. 

While  friends  are  thronging  round  your  home, 

Alas  for  me  !  I  cannot  come  ; 

But  when  that  rare  and  costly  gem, 

That  sparkles  in  the  diadem 

That  crowns  for  aye  the  earthly  rite, 
Beams  radiant  with  celestial  light, 
No  longer  lame,  may  I  not  come 

And  greet  you  in  that  happier  home  ? 

W.  W.  S. 

October,  1857. 


THE   AECHER 

INSATIATE  Archer !  could  not  one  suffice  ? 

Thy  shaft  flew  thrice,  and  thrice  my  peace  was  slain ; 

And  thrice,  ere  thrice  yon  moon  had  filled  her  horn. 

EDWARD  YOUNG. 

Applied  to  Dr.    SAMUEL  CABOT  on  the  occasion  of  his  shooting  three  bucks 
with  three  shots,  NAUSHOX,  Oct.  11,  1883. 


42 


658  TO 


FROM   "THE  DREAM." 

IT  was  not  that  her  radiant  eyes 

Were  like  the  stars  of  Eastern  skies ; 

It  was  not  that  her  brow  was  fair, 

That  nature's  softest  touch  was  there ; 

It  was  not  that  the  hand  of  love 

The  texture  of  her  cheeks  had  wove : 

It  was  the  spirit's  harmony, 

The  mind's  unbroken  melody, 

Breathing  its  sweetness  through  the  whole; 

It  was  the  glance  that  spoke  a  soul 

All  fearless  in  its  purity  ; 

It  was  the  sunny  smile  that  drew, 

Where'er  it  fell  on  this  world's  tears, 

Bright  colors  out,  whose  rainbow  hue  ' 

Gave  promise  of  less  troubled  years. 

MRS.  CONYGHAM,  New  Monthly  Magazine. 

Lat.  2°  N.,"  Logan,"  May  16,  1834  ;  "  a  glazed  sea  beneath  a  brazen  sky." 
Omitted  from  its  proper  place  among  the  ' '  Scrap  Book  "  poems. 


FEBRUARY  23,  1883. 

Now,  dear  old  friend  of  many  years, 

Brave  heart  so  true  and  tender, 
Draw  closer  up,  here 's  festive  cheer, 

This  is  our  little  "  bender." 

We  've  turned  our  backs  on  household  things, 

Our  worser  halves  deserted ; 
And,  spreading  our  "  swamp  angel "  wings, 

Away  to  you  have  flirted. 


TO  -     —.  659 

Poor  lonesome ,  in  our  stead, 

Fries  our  domestic  fishes  ; 
While puts  the  chicks  to  bed, 

And  washes  up  the  dishes ! 

Let 's  give  our  carking  cares  a  rest : 

Our  thoughts  shall  only  treasure 
Most  loving  wishes  for  our  guest,  — 

And  in  a  heaping  measure. 

We  know  the  emblems  time  hangs  out, 

To  catch  the  eye  unwary,  — 
Gray  hairs,  a  feebler  gait  no  doubt, 

And  other  ills  to  vary. 

But  does  he  ken  the  spirit's  age, 

Of  which  the  signs  are  plenty  ? 
He  labels  "  seventy  "  on  the  cage ; 

We  know  the  inmate 's  twenty. 

Dear  comrade,  wear  these  flowers  for  us : 
May  their  sweet  breath  enchant  thee ! 

Now  let  us  take  the  omnibus,  — 
And  go  to  "  lolanthe." 

By  our  Poet  Laureate,  W.  LLOYD  GARRISON,  JR. 


University  Press:    John  Wilson  &  Son,  Cambridge. 


IIP 
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000  674  355     3 


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1 


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